


Wildgirl

by Inkstained_Dreamer



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Brother-Sister Relationships, Friendship, Gen, Grief, Implied abuse, Learning how to love yourself is hard sometimes, Lots of gender roles in Rohan, Referenced Child Neglect, Riders of Rohan - Freeform, Rohan, Survivor Guilt, Vignettes, but thankfully our girl Éowyn is strong enough to handle them, but that's okay, she has no qualms about sassing Nazgûl, Éowyn is a savage, Éowyn is the OG feminist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26856772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkstained_Dreamer/pseuds/Inkstained_Dreamer
Summary: Éowyn comes from a line of warriors, and their blood flows in her veins. She looks at the paintings of ancient fighters, and knows, though not everyone agrees, that one day she will join them. Will her people ever see her as more than a little girl playing soldier?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel & Éowyn, Merry Brandybuck & Éowyn, Éomer Éadig & Éowyn, Éomer Éadig & Éowyn & Théodred, Éowyn & Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Éowyn & Nienna, Éowyn & Théoden Ednew, Éowyn & Witch-king of Angmar, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes on structure:  
> -This story is told in vignettes covering different parts of Éowyn's life  
> -Each chapter has 3-4 vignettes (typically)  
> -I will be updating the tags as more characters come in, so if it seems sparse now, it's just because I'm avoiding spoilers :)

When she was small, still small enough to be held in the warm, strong circle of her uncle’s arms, the little girl with the streaky blonde hair would open her blue eyes wide and stare at the paintings on the walls of her uncle’s halls. They showed warriors and breaking waves, armor and spears glinting under the sun, and always, always the green banner with the white horse, flying victorious over one and all. Her uncle would hold their lamp close to the colorful pictures and point out the faces of the little girl’s ancestors.

“Always remember, Éowyn,” he had said, the rough stubble of his beard tickling her cheek, “that you come from a line of warriors.”

The little girl had snuggled close in his arms, watching the golden lamplight play on the faces, frozen forever in the exaltation of their land. Her round eyes had crinkled at the corners, and her mouth had turned down, as she tilted her face up to her uncle’s and spoke the thought foremost in her mind. 

“Uncle, where are the girls? Why are there no women on the horses?”

He ruffled her downy hair and smiled. “Well, Éowyn, the women had other things to do. They had to make sure their men had a good home to return to, at the end of the fight.”

The little girl with the golden hair looked back at the murals, her small hands balled into fists, her eyebrows furrowed. She stared and stared at the faces of the bold soldiers, searching fruitlessly for a glimpse of one like hers. Her uncle hummed a tune in her ear, a lullaby, and rocked her gently. The stars glinted through the tall windows of Meduseld. Soon, the little girl’s nurse would come, and she would be sent off to bed.

As her eyes drifted closed and the images on the walls began to blur and fade, the little girl with the warrior’s heart made a promise--one day, she would ride beneath the green banner with the white horse, her mail glinting, and she would lead her people to victory. 

~ ~ ~

There were always horses. Éomer had one of his own. So did Théodred. Éowyn didn’t. Her brother, with all the superiority of an added three years on the earth, teased her, and called her “short-legs” and “pygmy.” Her cousin, five years older and twice her height, ruffled her hair and told her that she’d grow someday, and then went cantering off across the plains, racing with Éomer, leaving the little girl behind in a cloud of dust and blown grass that made her sniff and sneeze. 

She would yell after them with all the strength in her small lungs, but no one heard. Sometimes she would even run after them, her thin arms flailing wildly, until one or another of her uncle’s soldiers came to gently carry her back to the hall. Always they pulled her back, turned her face from the horizon, closed the windows and doors and pointed her eyes down, to sewing and spinning and cookery and all the things the little girl despised with all her tiny, strong heart.

“Why can I not have a horse of my own?” she asked her nurse one day.

The old woman chuckled merrily, the loom whirring before her. “Bless your heart, child, whatever do you want a horse for?”

Éowyn sighed impatiently. “To race with my brother, Ides. I think I could beat him.” She fixed her blue eyes solemnly on her nurse and added, “And to be like the knights in Uncle’s pictures.” 

Ides laughed again and fondly stroked the little girl’s tangled locks. “Knights and racing? Where do you get such notions, child? You’ll make a fine match one day, and where will horses and races get you then?”

The little girl stomped her foot. “I shan’t! I shan’t! You can’t make me! I won’t ever get married if it means I can’t ride!”

With a wail, the little girl clenched her hands around her embroidery and, with a wrench, ripped it down the middle. Colorful threads snapped, raining down onto the floor. 

Ides was too slow to catch her charge, and Éowyn pelted out into the corridor, tears of rage streaming down her face. She darted past the guards at the door of her uncle’s hall, slipped through the mighty doors, and dodged through the legs of the courtiers. 

She found her cousin sitting at the foot of the carved throne, her brother beside him, idly knotting and unkotting a piece of leather. With a sob, she threw herself down between them and buried her head in her folded arms.

“Wynnie? What is it? What happened?” Éomer asked, putting a hand on her back.

“They. . .they won’t let me have a horse,” Éowyn choked out.

“Why do you  _ want _ one, Éowyn?” her brother asked. 

“I want to race with you,” Éowyn whimpered. “But Ides says that girls don’t do that.”

Théodred laughed gently and rubbed her shoulder. “Sure they do. We can teach you to ride, if you want to learn. You’ll be beating us in the races in no time.”

Éowyn raised her tearstained face from her arms. “Really?”

Théodred grinned and rumpled her hair affectionately. “Yes, really.”

Éomer jostled her playfully. “Don’t listen to Ides, Wynnie. She’s just a rambling old hen with silly ideas.”

Éowyn giggled and swiped away the last stray tears.  _ I’ll be a knight yet _ , she thought happily. 

~ ~ ~

Though the little girl’s legs were barely long enough to reach the stirrups, and she had to be lifted onto the broad, tawny back of her first horse, she learned. Each day, she came back from the plains sore, dusty, with grass tangled in her hair. Her hands grew callused from the reins, her lips chapped from the wind. Ides shook her head, the little girl’s uncle lowered his bushy eyebrows, but Éowyn was oblivious to it all, caught up in a daze of happiness and newfound freedom.

The months turned to years, and the little girl grew taller, stronger, no longer the sad-faced, sickly child of days gone by. She was eleven now, able to keep up with her lanky brother. When Théodred and Éomer began combat training, Éowyn hid and watched and practiced after dark until her arms adapted to hold the weight of a sword, and her palms grew callused and raw from the pommel. The healers shook their heads and pretended not to notice when their jars of salve mysteriously disappeared from their places on the shelves. 

Éomer laughed and jostled his sister under the table when she appeared at a banquet with gloves over her hands, but it was friendly laughter, full of camaraderie and love. He no longer teased her, not after she had come to him in the middle of the night, with scraped knees and bleeding hands from tumbling from her windowsill. Not after a soldier was dismissed with a scratched face after he waited for the golden-haired girl in a dark corner of the stables. 

They called her little spitfire, wild girl, the white rider, Éowyn brave-heart. And she was. Wild, and free and strong.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

It was the year she turned sixteen that the darkness began to gather where the plains melted into the distant mountains. It came slowly, at first, like a chill wind finding its way under and around the doorframe that you were sure you had stuffed. It was a feeling almost beyond the feeble reach of human senses; a bitter tang to the wind, a dim shape in the clouds, shadows that hung like dusty velvet in corners where the sun should have been shining. When Éowyn rode out alone into the flats, she seemed to feel the weight of many eyes upon her, but always when she turned about, there was nothing. Even her typically dauntless mare turned skittish, blowing anxiously and prancing in place at every rustle in the long grass. Éowyn set her teeth and kept her gaze resolutely forward. Fear wouldn’t have her this easily.

In the winter, orcs trickled down out of the mountains, wreaking havoc after nightfall. Théoden sent out riders with newly-whetted spears and Théodred at their head, but they came back with nothing but downcast eyes and empty saddles. Éowyn watched them from beside her uncle, with fire in her eyes and clenched hands. She was just as good as Théodred, if not better, was she not? 

As the winter deepend, the orcs grew bolder, and the trickle became a torrent. Everyone grew tense, short-tempered, wary. Éowyn rattled about her uncle’s hall like a tempestuous phantom after she was prohibited from riding out alone, and her scowl grew darker after her uncle laughed--laughed!--at her when she knelt before him and offered herself to fight. 

“Éowyn,” he had said, “that is not your place. Your place is here, safe and protected in this hall. My dear child, you are a young lady now. It is time you invested yourself in gaining the feminine graces you will need in life.”

“Uncle,” Éowyn had growled in response, “We are beset and besieged. What use will I have for ‘feminine graces’ if the darkness covers our land? What is a woman for, if not to defend her people to the last?”

And he had laughed. Laughed at her resolution, at her serious face, as if she were a child with an endearing, but foolish notion. It had taken all of Éowyn’s strength to turn and walk away, her back straight, her head held high.

She did not let herself cry until she was curled in a corner of the stables, and even then, her tears were silent.

~ ~ ~

The first thaws came, but the attacks continued. Éowyn watched the warriors come and go, hiding her clenched fists in the folds of her skirt, keeping her face carefully expressionless, her rage locked away behind her eyes. But it was not the stormy, wild anger of days past. It was hard as granite, cold as steel. As she stood beside her uncle, watching her brother lead his first troop out, she was planning, forging ideas in the frigid fire of her soul. 

~ ~ ~

She cornered Éomer when he was rubbing down his saddle. He looked up at her, and gave her a weary smile. Sweat glistened on his forehead, and his hair was dark with it. The orc attacks had continued, despite the summer heat, and everyone was tired.

“Hullo, Wynnie. What goes?”

Éowyn sat down on a bale of hay and rested her elbows on her knees. “Éomer. Can I ask you something? Something important?”

Her brother rocked back on his heels. “‘Course you, can, sis.”

Éowyn smoothed her skirt and leveled her brother with a steady gaze. “Éomer, I’m seventeen now.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. “Mmhm, I know. Anything else to share?”

Éowyn glared at him. “What I was going to say,  _ before I was so rudely interrupted _ , was that I’m not a child. I know what’s going on, that the attacks haven’t stopped. And I. . .I want to help. Really help.”

Éomer gingerly put down his sponge, as if it had suddenly grown teeth and threatened to bite him. 

“Éowyn, I think I know what you’re asking. And I. . .I really understand that you want to fight. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out with us.”

Éowyn rocketed up from the bale and paced from one side of the room to the other. “No. Not you too. You can’t laugh at me! You wouldn’t!”

Éomer rose to his feet and rested a hand on Éowyn’s shoulder.

“Sis, I’m not laughing at you. It’s just. . .I know you’re just as strong and brave as any man, if not more. But the thing is, Wynnie, you haven’t been trained to fight orcs. And I would never forgive myself if you got hurt.”

Éowyn turned towards him, her blue eyes alight as if with flame from within. “Fine. Teach me to fight orcs and  _ then _ let me go with you.”

Éomer looked away. “I. . .I don’t know.”

“If you say no, I’ll just sneak out or go alone, Éomer,” she said coldly. 

Éomer looked back at her set face, a faint smile on his lips. “There really isn’t any stopping you, is there, my wild little sister?” he said with something like admiration in his voice. “I’ll do it, if only to prevent you from galloping off by yourself to save the Mark single handedly. Though I’m sure you could,” he added hastily, seeing the look of indignation on his sister’s face. 

She smiled at that, and reached out to squeeze his hand. “Thank you, Éomer. It’s us against the world, right? Just like it used to be?”

Éomer laughed. “Always, little sis. Always.”

~ ~ ~

Éomer kept to his word, and found that he had gained a willing and adept pupil. Éowyn reveled in the polished spear and the leather armor she wore, and her enthusiasm never flagged no matter how many bruises, scrapes, and buffets she sustained. They practiced under the stars, careful to hide their comings and goings. 

Or, at least they were clever and careful enough to throw off most people. One night, weeks after they had begun, they flitted into the deserted courtyard they used as a practice ground to find someone already there, muffled in leather armor.

The figure turned its head, revealing the smiling face of Théodred, older now, but with the same mischievous grin and dancing eyes. 

“My dear cousins, I am shocked and perturbed. How could you engage in diablerie without me?!”

Éowyn folded her arms. “It’s not diablerie. I’m learning to fight.”

Théodred gave her a little bow. “Of course. And I’m here to help train Rohan’s newest knight.”

She smiled, eyes shining bright as her spear in the moonlight.

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longish wait for this chapter. I'd been busy, and (eep) I'd actually given up on this story until one of you lovely humans inspired me to keep going with her sweet encouragement (thanks, friend). So thanks for sticking with me, and enjoy! :)

The summer passed in a dusty haze of nighttime work, and autumn arrived, with early frost and yellowing grass. Éowyn found fewer and fewer bruises after her lessons, and her arms grew accustomed to the weight of a sword. One day, when the dawn sky was filled with birds streaming away to warmer climes, Éowyn bound up her hair under a helm, buckled on her armor as quietly as she could, and slipped in with her brother’s soldiers. No one paid any attention to the young new rider, probably a boy from one of the isolated homesteads far out on the plains. They rode off as the sun was rising, their harness and armor jingling, and their helms gleaming in the sun. Éowyn grinned to herself and urged her horse forwards, into the sunrise. 

~ ~ ~

They did not have to wait long before a dust cloud appeared on the horizon, kicked up by many tramping feet. Éowyn clenched her hand on her spear and patted her horse’s neck with a hand that trembled only slightly. Dark shapes became visible in the haze up ahead, hulking and cumbersome. Éowyn licked her lips and shifted her weight in the saddle. 

And then Théodred’s hand went up, and, with a great yell ripped from many throats, the riders leveled their spears and broke into a gallop, charging towards their quarry. 

~ ~ ~

The first orc’s scream died on its lips as Éowyn’s spear flashed downwards. Blood sprayed up, splattering her face. She set her teeth and kept going, pushing back a wave of disgust. She was a warrior. She had prepared for this. She slashed again, and again, and again, until it became a rhythm, until the sharp scent of blood filled her nostrils and her mouth tasted of iron. Something sharp sliced into her ankle. She grunted and kicked out, feeling her boot strike home with a wet thunk. Pain bloomed in her toes, and she gasped.  _ Fool _ , she chided herself.  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid. You’ve got a spear for the first time, and what do you do? Kick an orc’s face in and probably break your foot.  _

But she kept going, flying into the stinking, sick mire of blood and dust, feeling a thousand feet tall. She was judgement, and justice, and held bright death in her hands.

For the first time, she wasn’t just a child with a silly idea, she wasn’t too bold, or too brash, or too wild. She was herself, terrible and fierce and strong and untameable. 

~ ~ ~

After she had scrubbed the dark blood from her spear, rubbed down her tired horse, and waited for all the riders to leave the stables, Éowyn slipped back into her skirts and kirtle, wincing as she wriggled her sore foot out of her boot. The toes were swollen and tender. She groaned. It would be hard to hide a hobble. 

A rattle at the door made Éowyn throw herself down on a pile of hay, grunting in pain as the cut on her ankle twinged. She’d forgotten that. Footsteps came closer, dull thuds against the floor. Éowyn burrowed into the straw, hoping that she could go unnoticed. The stall door creaked open. She heard the hay rustle as someone crouched beside her. 

“Sis? You all right?”

Éowyn sat up, pulling strands of straw from her hair. “Éomer, have you ever heard of a nice little thing called knocking?”

He laughed. “Oh, come on. Since when were you a stickler for formality? Also, you’re literally lying in straw without shoes on. So I don’t think you can criticize me. Just saying.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You’ve got mud on your face.”

Éomer smiled. “All right, all right.” He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a small corked jar. “Here. A peace offering. For your ankle. To keep it from getting infected.”

She uncorked it. The sharp tang of an herbal salve filled the air. With a sigh, she began dabbing it onto her ankle. Éomer sat beside her, contemplatively twirling a piece of straw.

“Hey, Wynnie?” 

She looked up. “Yes?”

He shifted, looking down. “I’m sorry if I underestimated you, before.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

He flushed, running a hand through his hair. “I watched you fight today. Éowyn, you were. . .amazing. You looked so strong, like, I don’t know, a fury. Or a queen. And I was--am--impressed.”

Éowyn kept her eyes on her ankle, but something like a tear glistened on her cheek.

“Thanks, Éomer,” she whispered. “I’m glad you’re my brother.”

He smiled and leaned his head on her shoulder. “My baby sister, all grown up and fighting orcs.”

She laughed and threw an arm over his shoulder. “Love you, idiot.”

He snorted. “Love you too, warrior queen.”

When Théodred found them, they were both asleep, Éowyn’s horse chewing placidly beside them. He laughed to himself and shook his head.

And then curled up beside them in the buttery sunlight, forgetting, for a moment, about the darkening eastern horizon. 

History is a hard burden for a child to bear. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up--while nothing graphic actually happens in this chapter, multiple violent things are described. I just wanted to make sure that everyone was aware of that, as I know that out-of-the-blue blood and guts can be off-putting.

She went out often, after that first time. In the hours before dawn, she was a warrior, unstoppable and ferocious, but during the day, she was docile and serene, a model of maidenly fragility. Her uncle was pleased, and thought that she was finally settling into the role that was to be hers. She let him think this, and his thoughts acted as a blindfold--her scrapes, bruises, and scars seemed to be invisible to his gaze. No matter how hard he looked at Éowyn, he saw what he wanted to see: a dutiful niece, satisfied with, or at least resigned to, the place she was allotted in the world. She smiled secretly to herself, beneath her cool mask of inscrutability. She would show him one day, him and everyone else. 

And then they would finally, finally see her, and she would throw her porcelain mask to the ground, and it would shatter and blow away with the winter wind.

~ ~ ~

Everything changed the year she was twenty. Théodred was gone, sent away to an outpost at the border. Her trio was reduced to two, and Meduseld felt gloomy and cold without Théodred’s bright smiles and boundless energy. Éomer and Éowyn tried as valiantly as they could to be cheerful for each other’s sake, but more often than not, they found themselves standing silently, gazing eastwards over the plains, hoping to see a troop of riders cantering home. But day after day, month after month, no one appeared. 

And the days grew ever darker, and the weight of unseen eyes grew ever heavier.

~ ~ ~

Théodred came home at the equinox, slogging through the mud stirred up by the endless rain. His face was haggard, blue shadows beneath his eyes and stubble covering his cheeks, but his smile was the same. He greeted everyone joyously; but when Éowyn embraced him, she could feel each and every bump of his spine, and could feel his ribs beneath his shirt, like a bird’s bones. She asked him if they had enough food at the garrison, and he smiled and laughed and twirled her around and told her not to worry, but he never answered her question. It was the first time Théodred had ever withheld an explanation from her, and Éowyn felt a tiny prick of hurt, like an icy needle, in her heart. 

All three of them sat, huddled up in a window seat, and watched the rain falling in silvery sheets outside. Théodred’s eyes were sad, and Éowyn and Éomer exchanged worried glances. Something was wrong, they all knew it, but no one was saying anything. They had never done that. They had always talked about everything and anything and all their little sorrows and joys.

Éowyn finally broke the silence. “Théodred?”

He looked at her, smiling, but dull-eyed. “Yes?”

Éowyn bit her lip, searching for a way to phrase all the things she wanted to say. “Théo, are you. . .is everything. . .how are things? Really?”

Théodred looked back at the sodden plains and grey sky. “Fine. Good. Everything’s good.”

Éomer reached out and took one of Théodred’s hands, intertwining their fingers. Éowyn scooted closer and laid her hand overtop of his other one. His skin was cold. She shivered slightly, pulling her wrap tighter around herself.

“Look,” Éomer said, “We’ve known you a pretty long time, Théo. If something’s wrong, you can tell us. Please tell us. We love you. We want to know.”

Théodred looked down, swallowing hard. A drop of water splashed onto the back of Éowyn’s hand and slid down, soaking into her skirt. It was followed by another, and another, and another, tear after glittering tear. Théodred’s shoulders were shaking, his body wracked with silent sobs. 

“Out on the border,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s not just orcs anymore, there are. . .other things. Dark things. And they come at night and there’s nothing you can do, nothing anyone can do, and you just feel yourself drowning. . .” He let out a shuddering breath. “Did you know that half of my troop is dead? I knew them all, they were my friends. Fastred, Lanstor, Dernfara, Haldleth, all of them are gone. Lanstor’s face was bloody pulp when we found him, Fastred we could only recognize from his sash.” Théodred gasped, choking on a whimper. Éowyn could feel his hand trembling. She squeezed it, as if she could siphon pain away through her fingers. 

“Dernfara’s brains were dashed out and he was floating facedown in a river when we finally got to him. There were three spears in his back. The water was completely red. Haldleth was tearing at his hair and babbling about shadows. We had to carry him back to the garrison. Two days later, we found him hanging from his bunk with the blankets around his neck. And we can’t even bury them, because the moment we leave a grave, the orcs come to scavenge and strip the body to bones.” He shook his head. “There are fires going, day and night. Burning the bodies. And if the damn soldiers of Mordor aren’t enough, we’ve got no food, we’re all sick, and if that doesn't kill you then chances are you’ll lose your mind and start to see things in every shadow. My bunkmate killed himself last week. I couldn’t even cry. My god. My god. I couldn’t even cry.” 

“You’ve got to tell your father,” Éomer interrupted. “He’ll pull you back.”

Théodred shook his head. “Maybe. But someone else will have to go out there, and I won’t do that to someone just because I’m a king’s son. It’s not right. I’m going back.”

Éowyn smiled sadly. “Fuck you and your noble heart, Théo. I’d come with you if I could. I’d go through fire and flood to get to you.”

Théodred swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. “Yeah. I know you would. But don’t. Please don’t. Not for me. And Éomer, this goes for you to. Don’t come to me. Promise it.”

Éomer bit his lip. “I promise.”

A desperate light flickered in Théodred’s eyes when he turned them to Éowyn. “Wynnie?”

“I promise.”

~ ~ ~

He left two days later. Éowyn and Éomer watched him go, letting the rain soak them until he was out of sight. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Éowyn curled in on herself. There were no enemies to fight, nothing she could swing her spear at, but she felt as if each step, each breath was a war in itself. She moved numbly through her daily tasks, smiled mechanically at her uncle, and lay awake in bed at night, too tired even for tears. It was as if Théodred had taken a piece of her heart with him when he had ridden off into the east, and she clawed at the empty space where it had been, turning on herself with the ferocity of a caged tiger, but the more she raged and ravened, the more cavernous the hole in her heart became.

~ ~ ~

Like an embodiment of Éowyn’s sorrow, the black-clad stranger emerged out of the mist and rain, dripping a trail across the floor when he made his bow before Théoden.

“Théoden king,” he said, his voice silver-sweet and soft, “And fair Lady Éowyn. I bring you greetings.”

Éowyn looked down at him, his dark hair hanging lank and damp over his face, and his soaking furs pooled around him on the floor. She felt a slight shudder pass through her, and she turned her eyes to her uncle instead, as he held out his hand to the man before him.

“You are welcome here, traveler,” Théoden said calmly, as the man touched his lips to the proffered fingers. “Tell us, what brings you to Edoras, and in such dark times?”

The man raised his eyes, glistening like black beetles, and gave a thin smile. “Dark times indeed, your majesty,” he murmured. “I am Gríma, son of Gálmód, and I have come far, in hopes of providing what humble aid I can to our most illustrious king.”

_ He’s laying it on a bit thick,  _ Éowyn thought to herself. 

“Ah,” gravely replied Théoden, apparently oblivious of Éowyn’s disgust. “In that case, I thank you. We are always in need of more soldiers. I’ll send you to Háma, my captain, he’ll find a place for you, I’m sure.”

Gríma held up his gloved hands, splattering water onto Éowyn’s dress.

“Oh,  _ no _ ,” he said, a thread of fear in his soft voice. “No, your majesty. I could not. I cannot fight, you see.” He laughed, a little wildly. “My hands. I can use neither spear nor sword.”

With an apologetic smile, he pulled off one of his soaking gloves, and held up his pale, veiny hand. Éowyn started. The fingers were twisted and bent, as if they had been broken and never mended, over and over again. She caught a glimpse of vivid, purple-red scars across his palm, before he slipped his claw of a hand into his sleeve. 

“So you see,” Gríma said again, “Unfortunate though it is, I am unable to fight.” He paused delicately, then continued, his voice even softer than before. “But. . .I do have other talents.”

Théoden raised an eyebrow. “Like what, Gríma, son of Gálmód?”

Gríma’s colorless lips twisted into a smile. “I have keen ears, and keener eyes, your majesty. If you take my meaning.”

Théoden nodded slowly. “I see. Éowyn, will you leave us? We must confer, and I fear our talk isn’t suitable for a lady.”

Éowyn fisted her hands in her skirt. “Uncle, I assure you, I am as discreet as any man. You can trust me.”

Théoden smiled indulgently and patted her arm. “Of course, of course. I only fear it would upset you. Now, off you go.”

Simmering with rage, Éowyn stalked past Gríma and out of the hall, letting the door slam behind her. 

~ ~ ~

“I can’t believe it!” Éowyn stormed. “He trusts a stranger who shows up out of nowhere more than he trusts his own flesh and blood?!” 

Éomer nodded from his perch on the windowsill. “Mm-hm. That’s rough, sis.”

“Rough?! It was a pile of steaming shite! And that Gríma man,” she spluttered, “With his fucking keen ears or whatever! Who even is he?! Do we know? No, we don’t! And after two weeks he’s an advisor and whispering in Théoden’s ear every other minute!”

Éomer nodded again, trying valiantly to keep from yawning. “Yeah, Wynnie. I know.”

With a groan, she sank to the floor, running her fingers through her hair. “Ugh. I hate it all. I wish Théodred would come home.”

“Yeah,” Éomer murmured, staring listlessly up at the moon. “Yeah, me too.”

Éowyn pushed herself up and curled into the opposite corner of the seat, nudging her brother until he raised his head to meet her eyes.

“Hey. He’s going to come home. Don’t worry, all right? He’ll come back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe he’s riding toward us right now.”

Éomer swallowed hard and wiped his eyes. “Yeah, tomorrow.”

Éowyn gave what she hoped was an encouraging smile, but it slipped from her face as she looked up at the shreds of cloud scudding across the night sky. They were both pretending, and they knew it. But pretending was the only thing they could do. 

~ ~ ~

Éowyn was sitting at the loom when the door burst open, revealing a young guard, flushed and breathing hard. 

“Lady Éowyn! Come quickly! We’ve spotted the prince! He’s coming!”

Leaping from her stool, Éowyn ignored Ides’s scandalized shriek and barreled into the corridor, hurtling past the soldier, who was already hurrying off, eager to be the bearer of good news.

Tripping on her skirts, Éowyn tumbled down the stairs and sprinted through the open door, out onto the steps. Éomer was already there, eyes glowing with joy. Éowyn jostled her way to her brother’s side, shading her eyes with her hand. She could see a cloud of dust, kicked up by galloping horses. A tattered green banner waved above them. Éowyn recognized Théodred’s bay horse, sides glinting in the sun. She whooped, waving her arms in the air, and nearly slapped Gríma across the face.

As the riders drew closer, Éowyn screwed up her eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of her cousin. She rubbed at her face. The glare was too much; it almost looked like Théodred’s saddle was. . .empty? No, she must be wrong. Why would he be riding another horse? 

She hadn’t realized she had spoken her thoughts aloud until she felt a touch on her shoulder and turned.

Gríma was looking over at her, his perpetually gloved hand on her arm. “I fear you aren’t wrong, milady.”

Éowyn drew back. “What do you mean?”

Gríma gave a conciliatory smile. “Look closely, Lady Éowyn. What do you see?”

“I see my cousin’s troop,” Éowyn retorted. “And I shall soon see my cousin among them.”

Gríma made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a chortle and a cough. “Are you absolutely sure, milady? Look.” 

He pointed at the bay mare, now clearly visible. Éowyn could see something on her back, but not a rider. . .it dangled over the horse’s side, swaying heavily with her movement. Éowyn squinted, trying to see over the heads of the people in front of her. There was a robe around the mare’s bridle, and she was being. . .led? But why?

As the troop wheeled around, preparing to come through the gates, Éowyn saw a flash of gold among the horses’ legs. It looked almost like. . .hair? But who had dismounted already? She peered through the dust, rising up on her toes to see better, and time seemed to slow down.

As if in a dream, Éowyn saw all too clearly what it was that lay so clumsily over the bay mare’s back. She screamed, not from joy, but from horror. The crowd’s jubilation continued around her, oblivious. 

Three weary-looking soldiers swung down from their mounts, staggering to the panting, sweating bay and lifting the unwieldy load from her back. The crowd began to murmur, confused. Where was Théodred? Where was the prince?

The three riders knelt before Théoden, laying their burden gently in the dust at his feet, bowing their heads. 

The shouts of joy turned to screams and wails as more and more people pressed forward and saw what lay on the ground before them. Éowyn watched numbly as her uncle crumpled to the earth, sobbing, bending to kiss the bloodied, bruised face of his son. 

“No,” Éowyn whispered, “No, no, no, it can’t be, not Théo, please, please, he’s fine, he’s going to be fine, I’m dreaming, yes that’s it, I’m dreaming, this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, no, no, no, no. . .”

She felt arms wrap around her, and looked up into the grief stricken face of her brother. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. She could feel his shoulders shaking with sobs.

He pulled her forwards, through the crowd and down the steps, until they collapsed in a heap beside the broken body of their cousin.

Éowyn stared down at the face she had loved so well, trying to picture the smile she would never see again. She reached out with a shaking hand and brushed the tangled golden hair from his forehead, feeling the stickiness of blood. His skin was cold beneath her touch, his head lolling to the side. A fly, buzzing lazily, landed on his cheek.

With a howl of pain, Éowyn bent over, clutching Théodred’s lifeless body, as if she could pull him back to her, back to the lands of the living.

She could dimly hear Éomer sobbing somewhere in the distance. A hand touched her back, gently stroking her hair, untangling her fingers from Théodred’s hands. She twisted around, clawing at the intruder who dared to take her from her cousin. But she saw his face, and was still, letting her hands drop. It was Théoden, looking older and wearier than she had ever seen him. His eyes were full of tears.

“Wynnie. He’s gone,” he choked out. “My son. I loved him. I loved him.”

“I know, Uncle,” she whispered, tears overflowing. “I loved him too. And now I think my heart is broken.”

He shook his head, resting his hand on her cheek and staring into her eyes. “Éowyn, my brave child. My wild girl. My daughter. We shall weather the storm together, you and I. I have learned that broken hearts keep on beating, whatever the odds.”

Éowyn whimpered and wrapped her arms around her uncle, letting him hold her as if she was small again, and the world was a fierce and frightening place. She felt Éomer put his arms around them both, and she leaned her head against his chest, listening to all three of their heartbeats. 

Keenly feeling the empty space where the fourth should have been.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, my friends, is the story of how I started crying during Zoom class. :(


	6. Chapter 6

To Éowyn’s immense surprise, the sun rose the next morning, and the mornings after, rosy and golden as a jewel. She combed her hair, and pulling out the tangles hurt just as it always had. Her shoes were still coming apart at the edges, her dress still had a tear in the left sleeve. Everything was the same.

But of course it wasn’t. It would never be the same again, because a world without Théodred was a world of darkness and gloom. Éowyn stared out over the eastward plains, screwing up her eyes to catch a glimpse of shadow; of some hint of the horrible thing that had taken her cousin away, but she saw nothing except the waving grasses and the pink-tinged clouds. She closed the curtains, hating the sun for shining so merrily and mercilessly on her broken universe.

She left her room; she would go to her uncle. Éomer was probably already with him, but he needed them both. He had aged since the dreadful day, seeming grey and wrinkled and beaten down. Éowyn had never seen him cry before, and though she wouldn’t admit it to herself, the sight scared her. Théoden had always been an unshakable pillar in her world, and disagree though they might, she admired him and knew that he was strong, brave, a good king.

She stumbled, jerking out of her reverie, and felt someone catch hold of her arm, steadying her. She looked over, and any thanks she might have uttered crawled back down her throat to die when she met Gríma’s glistening eyes. 

“Lady Éowyn,” he said smoothly, falling into step beside her, “I must offer you my deepest condolences, as I fear I haven’t had the opportunity to. The loss of the prince is truly _tragic_ , and I simply cannot _imagine_ how you must be feeling, seeing as you two were so close. If there’s anything, anything at all, that I can do to help, I’d be hap--”

“Well,” Éowyn interrupted, anger brewing inside her. “There _is_ one thing. . .leave me alone. I don’t want your false tears, I don’t want anything to do with you. You’re happy my cousin is dead, I know you are. You think you can take advantage of the king’s grief.” She turned on him, jerking her arm out of his grasp. “Well, you can’t. I will do absolutely anything to get you out, mark my words.”

Gríma’s eyebrows rose in consternation. “Milady, I assure you, your concerns are misplaced. I want only the best for you and your people, and I grieve deeply at the loss of the prince, though I never had the honor of meeting him, and--”

Éowyn growled in exasperation. “For the last time, Gríma, I don’t want to hear it! I know what you are, and, in case it wasn’t clear, I despise you. Keep bothering me and I’ll call the guards.”

Gríma affected a sympathetic expression. “Milady, I fear you are hysterical. All I am is a humble advisor and loyal subject of the king. I am nothing more. Nothing less. But since you wish it, I will leave you.”

He bowed stiffly, then looked up at her, and with a crooked smile, reached out and took her hand, bending to brush his lips against her knuckles.

“Good day, milady,” he murmured, before turning away and continuing down the corridor.

Éowyn watched him go, seething, and ran the rest of the way to the throne room, letting her pounding feet drown out the echo of Gríma’s words.

~ ~ ~

She slipped through the large doors, peering around the shadowy room. The long windows had all been covered with drapes that smelled of dust, and gloom hung in the air, regarding Éowyn with a thousand indifferent eyes. She sighed and crossed the wide expanse of floor, towards the glimmer of light beneath a small doorway. 

She pushed it gently open and paused, looking at the slumped figure seated on the floor, head bent and hands clutching a tattered green and white banner, stained with dust and smeared with blood. Théoden’s crown was nowhere to be seen, and his hair was knotted and streaked with grey. 

“Uncle,” Éowyn said quietly, kneeling beside him and softly placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Éowyn.”

He looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and his gaze unfocused. There were circles of purple-black beneath his eyes, and his hands trembled as they stroked the pennant. The flickering light of the candles on the family altar made his face look like carven stone. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Éowyn asked.

He shook his head, turning his eyes back to the altar. 

“Uncle, you need to rest. Éomer and I are worried about you. The whole of Edoras is worried about you. Please, Uncle. They need you. _We_ need you.”

Théoden coughed wetly and spoke in a hoarse voice. “You, Éomer, and Counselor Gríma are perfectly capable of making sure everything is going as it should. You don’t need me.”

Éowyn grabbed his hand and clutched it tightly. “Uncle, please try to understand. The people are afraid. They think that darkness will cover Rohan. There are rumors that you’re dead, or have fled from the attacks. Every day, more refugees come from the outlands, bearing tales of bloody horror. What they need is their king to guide them, not the counselors, nor my brother and me. We can only do so much, but you, Uncle, you could make them _believe_ again.”

Théoden slowly shook his head. “I have lost my son, my only child, whom I loved as the earth loves water. Let the darkness swallow Rohan. Let the Lord of Shadows slay me. It will not matter. I am already dead.”

Éowyn gritted her teeth. “So you would let a thousand other fathers lose their treasured children because it won’t matter to you? Uncle, it’s been two months. I _know_ that you’re grieving, I am too, but we have to keep going. Théodred died keeping our home safe. I want to make sure that his sacrifice wasn’t for nothing.”

Théoden slowly shook his head again. “It does not matter. I died the day I saw my son lying in the dust at my feet. You plead with a man already dead. The Shadow will take all, in the end, as it has taken my son. And then finally I will go to him, at the last.”

Éowyn renewed her grasp on his hand, bending to look into his cloudy eyes.

“No, Uncle. No. We have to fight. If we despair, we will assuredly fall into darkness, but with hope and courage, we stand a chance of throwing it off.”

A tear, pearly and shimmering slipped down his cheek. “It is too late for hope, Éowyn.”

“My uncle, my king, it was _you_ who told me that the brokenhearted can do more than give up,” Éowyn shouted, her voice rising in desperation. “Your heart may be in pieces, but that isn’t a reason to let everyone and everything you love be destroyed! Uncle, you can’t _do_ this!”

Théoden stared listlessly at the shivering candles. “I am already dead. I will see my son again, soon.”

Éowyn swallowed hard and rose. “Try to sleep, Uncle,” she said quietly, before moving to the door and pulling it open. She let it close behind her with a gentle click, and leaned her forehead against the wall, letting out a shuddering breath that ended on a sob. How could Théoden do this? How could he just give up?

She started when a hand touched her shoulder, and whirled fiercely, expecting to see Gríma’s oily countenance. 

But it wasn’t Gríma. It wasn’t anyone she knew. A strange man stared down at her, his brow furrowed. His clothes were worn and dirty, as if with long travel, and a grey cloak hung over his shoulders.

“Your pardon, lady,” he said, bowing politely. “I did not mean to startle you. I only wished to inquire how a few weary travellers could gain an audience with King Théoden.”

Éowyn buried her hands in the folds of her skirt, and forced a smile onto her face. “I’m afraid he is indisposed at this time, sir.”

The stranger nodded. “Ah, I see. But our news is very urgent, and simply cannot wait. We must see the king as soon as possible.”

Éowyn narrowed her eyes. “He is grieving the loss of his _son_ , sir. He will not see you, no matter what news you bring.”

“Strange is this,” voice from the shadows behind the travel-stained stranger. “When last I was here, when you, Princess, were but a wee thing clinging to your uncle’s robes, this hall was full of light and laughter, and was a welcome place for travellers to seek shelter. Now all I see is sorrowful faces, and all I hear is hushed tones. Has grief truly changed the spirit of this house?” 

As he spoke thus, an old, bearded man emerged from the darkness, leaning on a staff. His eyes were bright and keen beneath his bushy brows, so different from Théoden’s glazed expression. Éowyn felt as if he could see past her eyes and into her head when he glanced at her.

Éowyn gathered herself. “Who are you?”

The old man smiled. “I am Gandalf.” He paused. “ You do not remember me, Éowyn?”

A memory flitted across Éowyn’s mind, of sitting, curled in someone’s lap, as colorful sparks whirled and twirled before her eyes, forming pictures that danced and broke apart into smoke.

“I--I do. I think. But. . .things feel so far away now.”

Gandalf sighed heavily and moved towards her, his strange companion falling back. “I understand. But those things are still there. Remember that, brave Éowyn. Remember, and the darkness will not be as heavy on you.”

Éowyn bit her lip. How was she supposed to remember when every memory was painful and tainted with loss? What was the point? Maybe Théoden was right. Maybe the darkness would inevitably triumph. Black spots danced across her vision, and the room swirled.

And then everything came into focus, almost sharper and clearer than before, when she raised her befuddled eyes and met Gandalf’s gaze. It was as if a breeze had blown away cobwebs she hadn’t even been aware of. Almost unconsciously, her mouth turned up, and she found herself smiling genuinely for the first time in months.

But the set of Gandalf’s mouth was grave. “Lady Éowyn, where is King Théoden? I must see him.”

Éowyn’s smile slipped from her lips. “He is grieving. I don’t know if you heard, in your travels, but Théodred, my cousin, is dead. He was killed at the border two months ago.”

Gandalf shook his head. “I am sorry. He was a noble young man.”

Éowyn looked away. “Yes. He was.”

The other man spoke up again. “Gandalf, we must not tarry. . .”

Gandalf nodded. “Indeed. Time is of the essence. Princess, I fear we must interrupt the king’s mourning. We have news of grave import.”

Éowyn shook her head. “You won’t have much luck. He barely speaks to anyone anymore. But if your news is really so important, I will go and endeavour to rouse him. But I can’t promise anything.”

Gandalf nodded again. “Bring him here and I will do the rest.”

His companion bowed to Éowyn. “We are in your debt, milady. But I fear we must ask one more boon of you.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “Name it.”

“Our other companions--might they come and join us?”

Éowyn crossed her arms. “We-e-ell. . .are they as unkempt as you, master traveller?”

He smiled at that and shook his head. “They are as clean as can be expected, given the speed of our travel. But I apologize for tracking mud in on your floors.”

Éowyn snorted. “Don’t worry about it. Bring as many muddy people in here as you want, it’s fine with me, and my uncle couldn’t care less right about now.”

She turned back to the door, but as she did, the oaken doors of the hall burst open, and Gríma came running in, his cloak trailing behind him and his face flushed.

“Éowyn! Milady! You must not let them in! They are spies, agents of evil! Do not let them near the king, I entreat you!”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of derogatory language in this chapter, just a heads up.

Éowyn whirled around, an exclamation of surprise on her lips. But before she could utter a word, the doors flew open again, and in came Éomer, panting and shedding pieces of armor as he stumbled to a halt.

“GRÍMA,” he bellowed. “I told you not to interfere! They came with me!”

Gríma looked disdainfully over his shoulder. “What do you know? I expect the Dark Lord himself could slip by a buffoon like you.”

Éomer snorted. “Says the man--and that’s an exaggeration--who cowers behind closed doors when the time comes to fight.”

Gríma stomped towards Éomer, his face turning the color of a beet. “You imbecile! You witless bag of brawn!”

With a growl, Éowyn launched herself away from the door and leapt towards Gríma, her outstretched hands colliding with his back and pushing him to the ground. He gave an outraged cry, but Éowyn pulled him into a sitting position and yanked his cloak so tight he gasped.

“Nobody,” she said frigidly, “ _ Nobody _ on this whole damn  _ earth  _ calls my brother witless and gets away with it.”

“But. . .milady. . .those. . .people,” Gríma gurgled, “they. . .they should be sent away. They’re. . .dangerous.”

Éowyn grunted. “You do realize that no one asked your opinion, right?”

Gríma began to thrash and struggle. “Guards! Guards! Help!” he squealed. 

Éowyn rolled her eyes. “Shut  _ up _ , you snivelling little excuse for a human being! I won’t tell you again!”

Gríma continued to writhe, his face growing livid. Spittle flecked his lips. “You know,” he hissed savagely, “There’s a reason why no one wants you around, milady. You are like a wild boar--fierce, ugly, and selfish. You have no right to command me.” He laughed wildly. “No man will ever want you, Éowyn. You little bitch.”

There was a resounding crack as Éowyn’s fist crashed squarely into Gríma’s jaw. He toppled over with a howl of pain and lay still.

“Good hit, Wynnie!” Éomer cheered. The guards, drawn by the tumult stared with eyes like saucers from behind him. In the throng, Éowyn could make out Gandalf’s companion, now standing beside a slender, young-looking man and. . .was that a dwarf?

Catching her eye, dwarven warrior raised his head and waved a hand enthusiastically in the air. “Serves that bastard right! Well done, lady,” he yelled.

Éowyn gave him a weak smile. Things were getting stranger and stranger.

The hall was full of clamor now, as people crowded around Gríma’s prostrate form or exulted over the fight.

“She really hit him hard, didn’t she?!”

“I think he cracked his head when he fell. . .”

“Who’s that old man over there?”

“Did you hear what Counselor Gríma said to the princess?”

And then the noise stopped. Or, more accurately was drowned out by a voice that had commanded armies and shouted across windy plains.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?!” Théoden thundered. “This is my hall, not a tavern! You disturb my grief and dishonor my son with this racket! All of you, get  _ out _ !”

Gandalf stepped forwards, his staff tapping on the floor. “Théoden. You cannot hide forever, buried in your sorrow. You have very little time to prepare for what is coming. I am here to give you your last warning.”

~ ~ ~

Éowyn herded the gawking guards out of the hall and latched the doors behind them. All was quiet as Théoden slowly walked to his throne and sat down. 

“Gandalf,” Théoden said coldly. “I believe you know that you are no longer welcome here.”

Gandalf nodded. “Yes.”

Théoden raised his cloudy eyes. “And yet you have the audacity to walk into my home and call me coward.”

Gandalf sighed. “I did not call you coward, Théoden king. I said that you are hiding. There is a difference.”

Théoden’s nostrils flared. “Is there, old man? Leave my hall. I care not what tidings you bear.” 

Before Gandalf could open his mouth, Éowyn spoke.

“Uncle, listen to him. Please.” Her voice echoed in the silence, but she continued. “Let him speak.”

Théoden turned his head and looked at her. “Why, my child? Why should I listen to the man who trails ill-fortune like a cloak?”

Éowyn clenched her teeth, letting her anger swirl up within her. “Because, Uncle, I will not let more boys like Théodred die because you cannot face the truth. How many more sons and brothers will have to be killed before you realize that we are hovering on the edge of oblivion?! You let yourself be blinded and deafened by Gríma’s sweet words, Uncle, but now you must wake UP!”

The hall exploded in light, brilliant and shining, burning away the shadows. The drapes flew back from the windows, and sunshine spilled in. And before Éowyn’s astonished gaze, Théoden’s eyes grew clear, the grey faded from his hair, he sat up and looked about him as if seeing the world for the first time. 

Bewildered, Éowyn squinted through the blaze. At its center, like a star fallen to earth, Gandalf stood, beams radiating from his staff, and his robe sparkling white. 

“She is right,” he said, his voice clear and confident. “Awaken, Théoden, king of Rohan. Awaken and see.”

Théoden rose, still blinking, but when he spoke, his voice was strong. “I am listening, Mithrandir. Tell me your news.”

Gandalf gave him a wry smile. “You know, Théoden, perhaps you wouldn’t need me if you listened less to your counselors and more to your niece.”

Éowyn grinned and let the light pour down around her like a mantle of gold.

~ ~ ~

“I really can’t believe it worked, sis,” Éomer said that evening, sprawled out on Éowyn’s rug. “I mean, I always thought Gandalf was just. . .you know, an old man who knew some magic tricks, and then he was all glowy and ethereal and ka-boom!” He sat up excitedly. “And then  _ Aragorn _ . Did I tell you that he covered forty leagues in three days?!”

Éowyn nodded. “Yes. You told me. You told me fifty times.”

Éomer flopped back again. “Sorry. But he’s just amazing, right?!”

Éowyn rolled her eyes and smiled. “Your capacity to focus on the positive is. . .really awe-inspiring. You do know there’s a war on, right?”

Éomer grinned. “Of course I do! But how can I focus on Sauron when a man from literal actual legend just pops in for a visit? Oh, and also getting to kick Gríma out. That was the high point of. . .maybe my entire existence.”

Éowyn sat down beside him. “You were great.” She drew her knees up to her chest and sighed. “Théodred would’ve been in stitches.”

His face fell. “Yeah. He would’ve loved it when you punched that slippery rat right in front of everyone.”

Éowyn nodded. “I wish he were here with us,” she murmured. 

Éomer touched her arm. “Me too. Sometimes I still think of things to tell him, and then I remember that it’s not as simple as just walking down a hallway anymore.”

Éowyn turned her head. “What would you say?”

Éomer bit his lip. “I’d probably tell him I loved him. And that I hope I can be as brave as he was.” He made a valiant effort to smile and pulled himself up, leaning on Éowyn’s shoulder. “And then I’d tell him that we’re going to go kick Sauron’s arse for taking him away from us.”

Éowyn choked out something between a sob and a giggle, and then somehow they were both laughing and crying all at once.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, friends! I've been having a bit of writers' block, but I conquered it--YES--and am now back to this story! *victory dance*  
> Thanks for sticking with me. :)

The days that followed were hectic, and Éowyn found herself constantly in motion. There were food stores to be tallied, swords to be sharpened, families packed off to the caves. It was as if the visitors had been a great wind, blowing the dust from Edoras and lifting everyone up in its wake. 

But the wind wasn’t strong enough to blow open the door to Théoden’s war councils. Day after day, Éomer went in, closeted for hours with the visitors and the king, but no matter how many times Éowyn found excuses to walk by, that portal remained closed to her. The old, bitter knot of rage came back to roost in her chest, gnawing at her heart. She had thought perhaps things would change now that Gandalf had arrived. Now that the legends were coming true.

But apparently legends didn’t care about women like her. So she seethed as she counted swords and repaired armor, ached as she comforted the frightened children leaving their homes, smoldered as she oiled harness and repaired torn banners.

~ ~ ~

Éowyn pushed her way through the crowd of people filling the hall. Everyone was laughing, jubilant, drunk, or soon-to-be-drunk. She had no patience for this. Didn’t anyone remember that they were fighting a war? That Théodred was gone? She clenched her fists and glared at the flushed man who stumbled into her, shoving her to the side and into someone’s back. 

“Ugh! Sorry,” she grunted, righting herself and forcing a smile. 

“It’s fine,” the person said calmly, putting down his goblet and turning.

_ Of course,  _ Éowyn growled to herself.  _ Of course it had to be the legend himself. Dammit. _

She shored up her slipping smile and bowed politely. “Oh, er, Aragorn. Sir. Hello.”

He dipped his head. “Good evening, lady.”

Éowyn grabbed a glass from a nearby table and tapped her nails against its cool surface. “Will you be leaving soon, sir?”

He sighed gravely. “Yes. The day after tomorrow if all goes well.”

She nodded. “And what are your plans once you leave? If you can share that precious information with me, ” she added frigidly. She was feeling vengeful, the ravening anger rising to the surface again.

He raised his eyebrows, taken aback. “Did I offend you, milady?”

Éowyn smiled, tight lipped. “Oh no. Of course not. Please, continue. I’m curious.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I go to the Paths of the Dead.”

Éowyn nearly dropped her glass. “ _ What?!” _

“The day after tomorrow, I will ride to the Paths of the Dead.”

“You can’t,” Éowyn exclaimed. “You’ll die!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps. It’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

Éowyn gritted her teeth. “Do you really think you’re that special? That you could survive what no one has before?”

Aragorn gave her a sidelong glance. “I don’t think I’m special, lady. I just know that I’m the only one who will try.” He paused. “I would think you could understand that,” he murmured.

Éowyn put down her cup and crossed her arms. “And what exactly would make you think that, sir?”

He shrugged again. “Your brother told me quite a bit about you. I was impressed. It’s clear that your talents on the field are considerable.”

_ For a girl _ , Éowyn added in her head. She could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air.

She looked away, scanning the room. “Did he?” she replied, as carelessly as she could. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

“Oh, no. He described you as such a magnificent fighter. I was blown away.” He smiled.

Éowyn turned her head until she could see him from the corner of her eye. “Well then, if you think I’m so magnificent, can I ride with you in two days time?”

He slowly shook his head. “No, milady. You are needed here, to watch over your people.”

She turned away. “You can just say that you don’t think I’m capable.”

“No. That’s not what I think, actually.” She could feel his eyes on her. “Lady, may I speak frankly?”

“Go ahead,” Éowyn said acidly.

He leaned against the wall behind them. “Princess, might I hazard a guess as to why you seem so upset this evening?” He waited. Éowyn said nothing. He sighed and continued. “Your uncle thinks you, er, harbor some. . .feelings towards me. Might I inquire if he’s right?”

Éowyn’s stomach curdled, despite the gentleness of Aragorn’s tone.

“My uncle knows so little about me that it’s practically laughable,” she growled. “I’m not in love with you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Aragorn nodded. “I agree with you. Your uncle cares deeply for you but he bends you to fit his own image. I never thought you loved me.”

“I am so glad,” Éowyn snapped. “Congratulations. You’re not as much of an ass as most men I’ve met.”

Aragorn sighed wearily. “Éowyn, you’re angry. I get it. I know. But I don’t think it’s quite fair to direct the full force of your fury at me.”

Éowyn’s rage boiled over. “You know what’s not fair? That my uncle trusts a bedraggled stranger with a legendary claim more than his own niece. Has anyone asked me, even once, if I wanted to come to the war councils? Has anyone ever even  _ considered  _ that I can do more than count barrels of mead and sharpen swords? No. They haven’t. You think I’m a magnificent soldier, do you? Then why were you so quick to tell me that I should stay at home while  _ you _ fight? Did you even entertain the possibility of taking me on your mission?”

“Princess, I--”

“No,” Éowyn interrupted. “No. This is my time to speak. This is my time to be angry. I am tired of being treated like a fragile, breakable thing. Strip our bones bare and we’d be the same underneath, wouldn’t we? And yet everyone, absolutely everyone, takes you seriously because you are a  _ man _ and they shake their heads at me because I am not.” She was quivering, her fury beginning to cool into the old ache of hurt. She continued, softer than before.

“Have you ever been told that you should stay at home and sew, while the men, the stronger, braver,  _ better _ men fight? Do you know what it feels like to be constantly left behind? You don’t, and you never will. Because no one will ever treat you that way. And even if they did, you’d be called strong for ignoring them, while I’d be told I was headstrong or hysterical. Which are just two different ways of calling someone a bitch. And that just means a woman who is too strong for this stupid, stupid world.”

She shrugged and looked down. “I know it’s not really fair to be angry at you. Heaven knows, you did nothing to me. It’s just. . .”

She heard Aragorn make a soft sound, like a sigh or a whimper. “Just?”

Éowyn lifted her head and gave him a lopsided, sad smile. “You’re everything I have ever wanted to be. You have everything I have ever dreamed of. And the worst part is that I know I could’ve been like you in some other world than this.”

Aragorn nodded slowly, his face turned away. “I’m sorry, Éowyn. I’m sorry.”

She choked out a laugh. “Don’t apologize for existing. You’ve got great things to do, don’t you? You’re going to save us all, that’s what everyone’s saying.”

Aragorn looked down at her, his face full of a tender, ardent sympathy, shadowed on the edges by pain. 

“Not alone.”

Éowyn wrinkled her brows. “What?”

“If I am fated to do great things, I will not be doing them alone,” he said gravely. “The thing I’ve learned about heroes, Éowyn, is that it’s not really about who they themselves are--it’s about the people who they’re fighting beside, and the people who they’re fighting for. And in the end, it’s not the people who belittled them who get remembered.”

Silence hung between them. Éowyn could feel it rubbing against her skin, like static. Aragorn peeled himself away from the wall and glanced at her, his face unreadable again.

“I don’t think we will have time to talk again, Princess, so I bid you goodbye--and good luck. Go and remake this stupid world.”

He raised his closed hand to his heart, flicking the fingers out. A warriors’ salute, meant to be from commander to commander.

Éowyn opened her mouth to say something, but he was already gone, blending in with the crowd. 

_ Goodbye _ , Éowyn thought. And then to any higher power who happened to be listening:  _ I take back what I might’ve said before. Please protect him. As a special favor. Thanks. _

~ ~ ~

They rode away a day later. Éowyn did not speak to Aragorn again. 

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never really liked that Éowyn had romantic feelings for Aragorn, so I just chose not to write it like that. I know I just threw canon out the window, but, hey, I'm a wild writer and I do what I want. :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been quite busy this week, but *drumroll* here's the next installment! It's kind of short, but I hope you all enjoy! 
> 
> (True story: I brought myself to tears writing this. Eep.)

If the four visitors had been the rising tide, their departure opened the floodgates. Théoden rode off to Isengard, accompanied by Éomer, looking the gravest Éowyn had ever seen him. Éowyn didn’t bother with her disguise this time. She had a job to do first, and anyways, she needed to save her strength for the plan that was forming in her mind. 

So for the moment, she occupied herself with making sure each and every civilian was safely packed away to the hills. If she could prevent needless death, she would. That was the most important thing. Aragorn might be off on a suicide quest, Éomer might be riding to face a supernatural army, but Éowyn was still here, and she was determined to do all that she could for those who couldn’t do for themselves. 

She thought of Théodred often. He had loved people more than she did. It had always been her cousin who stopped to talk to old men drowsing in the sun, or children playing in the dust. She tried to smile like he had, to emulate his gentle tone and stalwart dependability as she packed carts full of provisions and comforted frightened families. 

She would die, she assumed dispassionately, but not everyone had to. The least she could do was give these people a chance at life. The chance her cousin had sacrificed.

~ ~ ~

Éomer came back dusty, battered, and absolutely elated. The moment he flung himself off his horse, he began talking, his suppressed excitement bubbling up like a stew. 

“Wynnie! We beat him! Saruman! I mean, it wasn’t us, really, it was the Tree-Folk, but still! I always thought they were made-up, you know, but there they were, striding around and rumbling and everything! And our old friend Wormtongue was there, all holed up like the rat that he is!”

Éowyn made an effort to smile. “I’m glad you’re back.”

If Éomer noticed her struggle, he didn’t show it. “Oh, and I forgot to tell you about the halflings! There were two of them, right out of legends! And one of them’s here now!”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “Seems like all the stories are just coming to life, huh?”

Éomer grinned. “Yeah!” Someone yelled his name and he whirled around. “Talk to you later, Wyn,” he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the churning throng of soldiers. 

Éowyn bit her lip. She missed him already, and the sunlight seemed dim and cold. She wondered if they’d have another chance to really talk before. . .before she was gone.

~ ~ ~

Things happened very quickly after that, moment falling over moment as if time itself was in a hurry, pushing and pulling at Éowyn like an insistent child. She was aware when people spoke to her, and aware that her mouth moved and formed words. She knew she ate and slept, but food was tasteless and all she remembered of her dreams was a shapeless, indistinct terror. 

Éowyn stayed up later and later each night, gathering what she needed. She unearthed her old armor from its hiding place under the stable floor and oiled it till it shone. She scraped the rust from her sword, but, after an agonizing few minutes, left her spear behind. She wasn’t going to be on horseback this time, and foot soldiers didn’t need spears.

The night before Théoden was to ride, Éowyn slipped out of her room and knocked on Éomer’s door, not waiting for a response before she entered. Éomer was sprawled out on the floor, mending a piece of harness. He smiled wearily up at her when she sat down beside him.

“Hey, sis. What goes?”

Éowyn shrugged and got ready to lie. “Nothing much, I guess. I just. . .wanted to talk.”

Éomer nodded and glanced at her. “Sure. Anything specific on your mind?”

Éowyn focused on picking apart the loose threads on her sleeves. “I was just thinking if. . .well, if anything happened. . .I just wanted to. . .you know, say what I never got to tell Théo.”

Éomer wrinkled his eyebrows in concern. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

Éowyn was silent. A strand came free from her dress and drifted to land on the rug. 

“Éowyn,” Éomer said, his tone serious and a little scared, “Nothing’s going to happen.” He paused. “Right?”

Éowyn exhaled slowly. “We don’t know that. So just know that I love you no matter what, and if. . .if something were to happen to one of us, you would keep on living your life and being as happy as you could, and. . .and. . .you wouldn’t miss me too much.”

Éomer sat up slowly, his eyes wide, his hands trembling. “Wynnie, why are you talking as if something bad’s going to happen to you? You’re going to be fine. You leave for the hills tomorrow. It’s safe there, and you’re going to be fine. You’re going to be  _ fine _ , all right? You hear me?!”

Éowyn found she couldn’t meet his frightened gaze, so she stared at his clenched hands.“I. . .yes. I guess I just misspoke. I’m so tired, and, you know. . .” she trailed off.

Éomer nodded and patted her knee. “Get some sleep, Wyn. We’re both going to be all right.”

His tone was so gentle and full of tenderness that Éowyn thought she heard the tiny snap as her heart shattered in two. 

~ ~ ~

With the moon throwing pale light over her room, Éowyn filled her pack. Knife, bedroll, cup, bowl, dried meat, whetstone. Everything an ordinary soldier would have. She buckled on her armor, slipped into her surcoat, and finally pulled her boots on. For the first time, the familiar weight of her gear failed to calm her. 

She bound up her hair and pulled her helmet over the twisted braids, pulling it down to hide as much as possible. For the thousandth time, she checked the wrappings around her chest. It would ache to wear them for so long, but she had no choice. The armor alone wasn’t enough to pass her off as a man. 

As quietly as she could, Éowyn pushed her door open and padded into the shadowy corridor. Sneaking around in full armor wasn’t going to be easy, but thankfully, she had years of practice. She barely squeaked as she slipped from shadow to shadow. 

For a moment, she hovered in front of Éomer’s door, resting her fingers on it, tracing the familiar grain of the wood. It would be so easy to go back, to hide in the hills like she was supposed to. All she had to do was turn and walk the other way. No one would call her coward. No one would even know. 

But then she thought of Théodred’s stolen smile, and of the bruised and bloody men who made their way back from the garrisons. She thought of the children she had helped leave Edoras, and she thought of Aragorn, who had seen her, and her uncle, who hadn’t yet. But most of all, she thought of a little girl with blonde hair, who had stared up at murals of warriors and sworn to be one of them. 

Éowyn raised her eyes and let her hand fall from the door. There was no turning back now. She had chosen her path, and she would walk it to the end, whatever stood in her way. 

_ Goodbye _ , Éowyn soundlessly whispered to her brother, and the rest of the sleeping hall.  _ Goodbye.  _

And she walked out into the night, heading for the soldiers’ camp. 

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very short viewpoint change at the beginning, just a warning for all you lovely folks who get disoriented easily. :)

Wulf, the newly promoted captain, prided himself on being able to recognize each and every soldier under his command. Which was why, as he sat outside his tent, he immediately knew that the furtive newcomer slipping from shadow to shadow was not, in fact, one of his men. Or even a man at all. 

Wulf had been a rider for many years, working with his unit to attack orcs nearing Edoras. Even then, as a much younger man, he had been exceptionally perceptive, and he remembered the whirlwind of a soldier who had fought by his side, but always disappeared as quickly as possible after their return. He had called himself ‘Dernhelm,” and had said he was from the provinces, but Wulf had always been good at spotting a lie. To be honest, he didn’t really care that Princess Éowyn chose to fight with them. She was good, and that was all that mattered. So he didn’t let on that he knew her secret, and subtly defused any hint of suspicion among the others.

She hadn’t ridden out in several years, but as Wulf watched the slight figure in dented armor moving across the greensward, he was sure that it was Éowyn. He would recognize that gait and oft-repaired armor anywhere. 

His brows furrowed in confusion. Why was she sneaking in  _ here _ ? Didn’t she know that the cavalry was camped on the other side? She couldn’t be intending to waste her considerable talent with a spear in favor of hand-to-hand combat, right? She must be trying to avoid suspicion, then. Well, Wulf, captain of the forty-seventh troop of the Mark, wasn’t about to see such a gifted rider melt into the ranks of marching men. 

He stood up and stretched, his muscles sore from hours of sitting on the ground. Then, in his best official voice, he called after the retreating figure about to disappear into the alleyways of tents.

~ ~ ~

“You there! Stop!” 

Éowyn froze in place. Shit. She’d been spotted. Should she run? No, she couldn’t. That would make it clear that she wasn’t supposed to be here. Her heart beat wildly as she heard footsteps coming up behind her, and felt a heavy hand on her shoulder. She turned, trying to put on her best soldier face. 

“Er. . .um. . .hi,” she said. Inwardly, she smacked herself and cursed her stupid tongue. Hi? Really?! She was stopped and  _ that’s _ what she could think of to say?

The markings on his armor denoted the man in front of her as a captain. She quickly raised her hand to her chest in a respectful salute.

“Apologies, sir. I was. . .surprised.”

The captain rubbed a hand over his face. “For the last time, Elfara, what in the name of all the ancestors are you doing here?! I told you that you had to stop trying to sneak into our camp. I know that you have friends here, but that is no excuse! We are in a  _ war _ , lad, don’t you understand?!”

The knot in Éowyn’s chest loosened a bit. He thought she was someone else. She was safe, for the moment. All she had to do was pretend. She rubbed her hand over the back of her neck, shifting her weight as if embarrassed and uncomfortable.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she said humbly, staring at the ground.

The captain gave an exasperated sigh. “If you’re that sorry, then why do I keep finding you where you don’t belong?!” He shook his head. “If it happens again, I’m going to have to report you to your squad leader.”

Éowyn bit her lip and widened her eyes. She was getting into her role now. “Please don’t, sir. I nearly was kicked out last week, and my parents will kill me if I get sent home. I won’t do it again, I promise.” 

He groaned. “Okay, okay, no need to get scared. I won’t report you this time. But I will see you back to the cavalry camp to make sure that you stick to your word. Come along.”

Before Éowyn could protest, he was firmly guiding her through the camp, lecturing her about discipline and taking her work seriously until they reached where the riders were stationed. 

“There you go, Elfara. Stay here, all right? No more visiting.”

Éowyn nodded contritely. “No more visiting,” she repeated. 

The captain smiled and patted her shoulder. “Be brave out there. Good luck, soldier. ”

Éowyn shot him a quick grin. “You too, sir. Thanks for not reporting me.”

He nodded once, saluted, and turned on his heel, walking off into the night.

If Éowyn had looked back a few seconds later, she would have seen Wulf stretch his arms toward the distant moon in a gesture of victory. 

~ ~ ~

As Éowyn wandered through the sleeping camp, she debated what to do. She hadn’t planned for this, and she needed to think quickly. She had only a few hours at most until dawn, and she couldn’t afford to be caught out then. Not all the captains would be as lenient as the one she’d just encountered, and some of them might even recognize her. She needed to be safely in place before the camp woke up. 

So, should she go with her original plan and try to sneak back onto the infantry side? Her gut told her no. If the same officer saw her again, he might not repeat his mistake, and if she drew the attention of one of the cavalry captains too. . .she shuddered. Absolutely not. So the only option was to hunker down with the riders and wait till morning. And then? Well, maybe she could just stay with them. She knew she was just as good, if not better, and, truth be told, she’d feel safer with a spear in her hand. She’d just have to make sure to avoid Éomer and her uncle, and she’d be fine. 

Éowyn nodded her head resolutely. She would just keep rolling with the punches and adjust her plan accordingly. Nothing was going to stop her now. 

~ ~ ~

It was easy for Éowyn to find a spear, wrap herself in her blanket, and lie in the long grass until dawn turned the sky the pearly pink and orange of a ripe peach. All around her, soldiers yelled to each other, horses whinnied, and armor clanged. Éowyn slipped through it all, just another beardless young soldier among many. No one noticed her, and she breathed a sigh of relief, thanking the kind fates that Éomer was busy with his own unit. 

She leaned into her horse’s side, breathing in the comforting scent of hay and warmth. The world may have been turned upside down, but horses were still just as solid as they always were, and that comforted Éowyn. She rubbed the mare’s neck and swung herself into the saddle, taking her place among the other riders. Nervous energy rippled through the ranks, men and horses alike shifting in their places. 

Over the helmets in front of her, Éowyn watched as her uncle rode to the front of the army, the white plume on his head blowing in the wind. He was a truly majestic sight, especially compared with the grief-stricken old man of the past months. Éowyn allowed herself a small smile of pride, but it quickly slipped away as Théoden began to speak.

“Men of the Mark, today we ride to face our greatest enemy,” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the mass of soldiers. Éowyn looked down. Men. Always men. Her heart twisted, the old, familiar bitterness surging up. She had lived her whole life in the shadow of men, and now she’d die as one. She doubted there’d be enough of her left in the end for them to ever realize she was a woman. She wondered what Éomer would think had happened. She hoped he wouldn’t grieve too much. Guilt joined with the roiling bitterness. If she stood in her stirrups she could see him, his shining hair blowing in the wind. He hated helmets, he always had. She quickly looked away, blinking back tears. She didn’t have time for that now. She’d made her decision, and she would stick to it. 

She let her uncle’s voice flow around her, the words blending into meaningless sound, as she slipped into a waking dream, slumping in her saddle.

With a jerk and a rush, she came back as the army began to move with a great clattering of shields and spears, and the shouts of many voices. 

Éowyn urged her horse forwards and raised her spear, letting the green pennant on it flap in the wind. As the troops picked up speed, thundering across the plain, she could taste the dust on her lips, and she yelled wildly, adding her voice to the untrammeled chorus around her. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

By the end of the first day, Éowyn’s chest ached, her throat was raw with dust and shouting, and she had sweat in creases she hadn’t even known she had. She slid gratefully off her horse and collapsed on the ground, letting the last rays of the setting sun caress her face. But she couldn’t rest yet. With a groan, she pushed herself up to unsaddle her mount and rub her down.

Going through the familiar motions was a comfort to Éowyn. As she brushed the dust from the mare’s coat, she wondered detachedly how many more times she would perform this routine. She’d never thought to be grateful for it, but death did seem to lend a certain beauty to everything. Éowyn shook her head to clear it and, after making sure that the picket was stuck firmly in the ground, patted the horse and walked towards the small copse of trees nearby. 

She plunged into the undergrowth, walking until she was completely surrounded by tangled thickets. She looked around furtively before unlacing her cuisses and wriggling her as much out of her pants as she dared. 

_Please,_ Éowyn begged of any divine presence that happened to be available, _Please give me privacy for two minutes. Okay? Great._

Something must have been listening (or the thorns had done their job well), because Éowyn emerged a few minutes later without attracting any attention, quietly thanking the fates that she’d been left in peace. 

Wearily, she chewed on some dried meat, avoiding the campfires of the other soldiers. She wasn’t missing anything, she knew. All they did was trade banter about women back home. And dicks. Always dicks. Éowyn snorted to herself. She’d never understand what some men found so absorbing about discussing their genitalia. 

Still giggling to herself, Éowyn unrolled her blanket and curled up with her arms pillowing her head. It was going to be another long day tomorrow, and she wanted to rest while she could.

She was so tired even the nightmares didn’t wake her as they usually did. 

~ ~ ~

Éowyn blearily rubbed the sleep from her eyes. The sky was tinged greyish-pink, and she could hear the sounds of the camp waking up around her. Time for another day. Her aches had only worsened in the night, she found, as she creaked her way over to the thicket. She’d never thought beds were that special before. What a mistake. 

As the sun rose above the eastern horizon, the company set off again, quieter than the day before. There were no more yells of jubilation. The overcast sky seemed to have reminded everyone exactly what it was they were riding off to meet. Éowyn bit her lip and focused on the space between her horse’s ears. She couldn’t afford to get cold feet now. 

The day passed much as the last one had, and that evening, Éowyn collapsed onto her bedroll with a sigh of relief. She wished she could loosen the wrappings on her chest, but she knew it was too risky. She lay on her back and tried to breathe deeply, her ribs protesting with every inhalation. 

Éowyn only realized she had fallen asleep when she found herself blinking up at a black velvet sky. Clouds scudded over the moon and obscured the stars. A chill breeze tickled her exposed face, making her shiver. _It’s just the wind_ , Éowyn chided herself. _Don’t be a baby._

But it was so very dark. The campfires had burned down to glowing embers, and the moon was a thin, sickly-looking crescent, barely shedding any light. Éowyn sat up, wrapping her blanket around her shoulders and looking about warily. 

She had almost dozed off again when someone--or something--rustled in the long grass close to her. Éowyn shot up, her heart pounding wildly. She scrambled for her sword and jerked it out of its scabbard, searching for the source of the sound. A few moments passed. Was it just the wind?

No. The sound came again, more of a crunching this time, as if dead grass was being crushed underfoot, and Éowyn had never heard of the wind walking through a field. 

“Who’s there?!” she hissed, letting the blanket fall from her shoulders as she rose into a crouch. “Come out here. Now.”

The grass rustled again, and a small hand emerged, pushing the stalks out of the way. A friendly, open sort of face followed the hand, and a small figure slipped out of the waving stems.

It--he--waved a little worriedly up at Éowyn. “Er. . .hello there. Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

Éowyn sheathed her sword and sat back down. It must be the halfling Éomer had mentioned. No one Éowyn knew was that short or had feet so large. She wrapped her arms around her knees and held back a laugh. To think she had been frightened of a person barely four feet tall!

She offered the halfling a small smile. “You don’t have to look so nervous, you know. I’m not going to slice you in half.”

“That’s really great news,” he replied cheerily. “When I saw you swinging that big old sword around, I got a tad bit worried.”

Éowyn shrugged. “Sorry. I didn’t know who was there.”

He nodded and sat down cross-legged on the grass. “I get it. We’re all on edge. I was just taking a stroll to try and clear my head. My name’s Merry, by the way. Merry Brandybuck. Who’re you?”

Éowyn paused. “My name is Dernhelm.”

Merry raised inquiring brows. “Dernhelm. . .?”

“Just Dernhelm, thank you,” Éowyn said firmly. 

“All right,” Merry said. “Well, Just Dernhelm, I’m sorry that I woke you up. I can go, if you want.”

Éowyn considered this. Chatting with a perfect stranger was definitely preferable to tumbling through nightmares. And it was a welcome distraction from. . . everything. Why not?

“Oh, no,” Éowyn said. “There’s no need. I don’t think I’ll be going back to sleep anyways.”

Merry gave her a sympathetic look. “Too many thoughts rattling around?”

“Er. . .yeah.” _If only you knew_ , Éowyn thought to herself. 

But Merry had already moved on. “I know how that feels. You see, Just Dernhelm, I’m in a bit of a jam right now.” He looked left and right, as if someone might be listening, and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m not technically supposed to be here. The king--lovely fellow, by the way, don’t know if you’ve made his acquaintance--told me to stay behind, but. . .well, I couldn’t just leave him!”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. Another misfit? What were the chances? 

Merry kept talking, his face turning serious and sad. “And. . .now that Pippin isn’t here--Pippin’s my best friend--I don’t really have anything to _do_. Pippin’s the funny one, the one with all the ideas, and I’m just Merry. Useless, useless Merry.” He swiped a hand over his eyes and sniffed. “So I might as well try to do something worthwhile, right?”

Éowyn felt a sudden rush of sympathy for this tiny, exuberant stranger. He wasn’t so different from her. Maybe she could. . .but was it too risky? 

_Fuck it_ , Éowyn thought. _I’m just gonna go with this. Why not? It won’t matter pretty soon anyways._

“Well, Merry,” Éowyn said thoughtfully. “It sounds like you’re going through a lot.”

Merry gave a soggy little laugh. “Did I say too much? Pippin always tells me not to spill my life story to anyone who’ll sit still. I’m so sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

Éowyn smiled. “Actually, that’s not it. What I was going to say was this: I want to offer you a proposition.”

Merry’s brows furrowed. “A proposition?”

Éowyn nodded. “Yes. Both of us want to fight. I happen to have a horse. You don’t, and, with all due respect, your legs look a bit too short to keep up with the foot soldiers. So, would you like to ride with me? I’ll make sure you go unnoticed. I’m a real pro at that. What do you think?”

Merry’s eyes widened. “You’d do that for me?! But. . .I don’t know you.”

Éowyn shrugged. “What does it matter? It’s not like I’m going to kidnap you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Merry blushed so deeply Éowyn could see it even in the dim light. “Oh, of course not! I wasn’t. . .I wasn’t thinking that at all! It’s just so very nice of you, and. . .well, I hadn’t expected it.” He looked up at her and smiled shyly. “If you’re sure it won’t be a bother for you, I’d really appreciate your sneaking expertise. And your horse’s long legs.”

Éowyn grinned. “You’re on, my friend.”

Merry chuckled and held out his hand. Éowyn stared at it. What did he _want_? Was this some halfling custom?

“You shake it, Dernhelm,” Merry hissed. “Where I live, we do it to seal deals and stuff.”

“Oh,” Éowyn said, and gently shook the proffered hand with the tips of her fingers.

Merry snorted. “We’ll work on it, buddy,” he said. “That was pretty limp, but with practice and dedication you can improve.”

Éowyn giggled, stuffing her fist in her mouth to hold in the sound. She must have looked funny, because Merry began to chortle too, and soon they had both pressed their faces against the grown, shaking with silent guffaws.

To Éowyn’s surprise, the nightmares stayed away that night. Maybe they didn’t like to tangle with groups. She was grateful for Merry’s solid, warm bulk curled next to her, like a watchdog against the terrors of her mind. It was nice, to not feel alone. 

~ ~ ~

It wasn’t hard for Éowyn to position herself so that Merry was barely visible on her horse. It was all in the way she draped her cloak and tied on her pack. No one noticed anything, and she and Merry found that they could even talk quietly. Everyone was too busy squinting at the smoky, darkening horizon to pay any attention. 

On the fourth day, the air took on an acrid tang, scorched and metallic. Éowyn tied a scrap cut from her blanket over her nose and mouth, but it didn’t help. By the end of the day, everyone was coughing. They were close. Everyone could feel it.

On the fifth day, they could see flashes of fire, red against the grey sky. Éowyn focused on keeping her breathing as steady as she could. Merry dozed against her arm. The smoke seemed to tire him. Éowyn gently tied a rag around his face, but it didn’t seem to help him any more than it helped her. She rubbed his back when they stopped in the evening, listening to his scratchy, rattling breathing. Her own throat ached, and her lips were dry and cracking. Stinging dust blew in the wind. 

“We’re almost there,” Éowyn murmured to Merry on the morning of the sixth day. “We’ll be fighting soon. Just stick with me, okay? I’ll keep you safe.”

Merry twisted his head back to look up at her. “You’re going to keep yourself safe too, right?”

Éowyn stared straight ahead, focusing on the dim smudge that was Minas Tirith. 

“Right, Just Dernhelm?” Merry asked again, more insistently.

Éowyn looked down at him and smiled sadly. “We’ll see.”

“Don’t you dare get killed,” Merry said fiercely. “I won’t stand for it. I’ll have you know that my family’s quite well-respected in the Shire, and we don’t just let our friends go off and get hurt.”

Éowyn didn’t reply. The lump in her throat and the smarting in her eyes wasn’t just from the dust and smoke. She hadn’t bargained for this when she’d left home. Why was it that the farther she traveled, the less appealing and heroic death seemed?

She'd made the right decision. . .right? 

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of blood and guts in this chapter, so if that bothers you, just make sure to skip what you need to. :) It's not super graphic, but it is there, and I want everyone to be safe and healthy.

The smoke was so thick that Éowyn didn’t quite realize she was in the battle until a hulking orc with a nose like a squashed tomato rose up out of the smog and swung a wicked-looking greataxe at her. She raised her shield to deflect the blow as her horse shied away. Merry let out a squeak of terror as the breeze from the axe ruffled his hair. Éowyn smirked and wheeled around, jabbing at the orc with her spear. It disappeared into the fog with a shrill howl. Easy. 

Quickly, Éowyn fell into the old familiar rhythm of slashing, stabbing, dodging, dealing death wherever she went. Merry yelled directions to her when the smoke was so thick she couldn’t see. “On your left!” Merry would cry, and Éowyn would drive her spear downwards, feeling the sickening thud of flesh beneath. It made her cringe. She wondered why. Killing had never troubled her before. It was the natural order of things, the way the world worked. Hunter and hunted, predator and prey. An everlasting cycle. 

_ Perhaps you’re just afraid that it’ll be you next,  _ whispered a cold voice in Éowyn’s mind.  _ How long do you think you have left? A minute? An hour? How long can you keep this up before you tire and get sloppy? _

Éowyn tightened her grip on her spear and ignored it. She would keep fighting for as long as she could, and after that. . .well, all she could hope for was that her death came quickly. She’d ridden past too many men lying on the ground, missing limbs or spitting blood and begging for mercy. 

“Uh, Dernhelm?” Merry yelled over the clashing of armor and the screams of horses. “Dernhelm?!” 

Éowyn came to herself. “What?!” she bawled back at Merry. 

“Maybe this isn’t the best time to give you bad news,” Merry bellowed. 

“Just do it!” Éowyn screamed back, kicking at a black-clad soldier who rose up beside her. 

“Nazgûl!” Merry warbled. “I felt it!”

Éowyn squinted into the grey-black fog ahead. “Are you sure? I haven’t seen anything.”

“No offense, buddy,” Merry yelled, “But I’m a hobbit and we have instincts! There’s a wraith flying around up there, okay?!”

“I’ll take your word for it! Hopefully it’ll leave us be! Often they’re just surveillance flights, so there’s a good chance it doesn’t have an interest in messing with--”

Éowyn’s voice melted into nothing. A strange sensation came over her, as if her heart had decided to take a short jaunt down to visit her stomach. The sounds of battle around her dimmed and faded as a huge shadow covered them both. 

_ Well then,  _ said the small piece of Éowyn that wasn’t frozen in abject terror,  _ I guess the wraith isn’t just going to leave us be. Great. Just splendid.  _

A horrible sound rent the air, somewhere in between a yowling animal and an unholy death cry. Éowyn’s horse reared, whinnying in panic. Éowyn found herself launched into the air, her spear flying from her hand. She landed with a thump on something. . .squishy? 

Éowyn pushed herself up, groaning. Every movement sent burning jabs through her spine. She looked down, trying to clear her head, and stared straight into glassy green eyes. Dead eyes. She was sitting on a corpse, the dark blood and oozing entrails staining her pants.

Éowyn swallowed a scream and scrambled away, gagging. She knew she was lucky not to have cracked her bones on the ground, but landing on that poor man. . .she retched again. His stomach had been torn open. She thought he’d been missing a leg. 

Éowyn raised her head, looking around for Merry. She hoped he was all right. She didn’t dare call for him, in case there were enemy soldiers nearby. Hopefully he would have the sense to stay still until she found him. She refused to entertain the thought that he might be dead. He was  _ fine.  _ He’d been alive just a minute ago, she’d been close enough to feel him breathe. 

As Éowyn started to rise from her feet, unsheathing her sword to use as a crutch, something huge thudded onto the ground to her left. She felt a rush of putrid air, as if from great wings. The awful shrieking sound came again, and she sank back on her knees, her mind blank except for one word:  _ shit.  _

~ ~ ~

When Éowyn found the courage to raise her eyes, her first thought was something along the lines of ‘Oh good, that thing didn’t land to eviscerate me!’ but the relief quickly turned to horror. Because yes, the wraith seemed not to be aware of her--but sitting directly in front of it, on his warhorse, his spear held high, his plume waving, was Théoden. 

_ On second thought,  _ Éowyn considered detachedly,  _ fuck.  _

~ ~ ~

“You are an unnatural insult to the gods!” boomed Théoden. “You imitator of life! I will destroy you!”

The cloaked, faceless  _ thing _ on the winged, scaly animal seemed to consider this. And then it laughed. The sound was low and deadly, like the growl of a predator. Éowyn shuddered.

“You entertain me,” the rider said. “You puny mortals think yourselves so strong and great. Do you, my little kingly friend, really believe you can defeat  _ me _ , the lord of the Nazgûl, lieutenant of Sauron, lord of the earth?” 

Théoden’s face was rather pale, but he raised his spear and charged towards the wraith with a yell of defiance. Éowyn clenched her teeth as the armored horror raised its mace and swung it. It struck with a terrible clanging thud, and Théoden screamed, flying through the air and landing with a sickening crash beside Éowyn. For a moment, she stared into his pained eyes. There was a trickle of blood coming from the corner of his mouth. 

And before she truly knew what was happening, Éowyn was running towards the wraith-king, ignoring the searing pain in her spine. Rage replaced her fear. This thing had hurt her uncle, had killed her cousin, and by all the gods, it was going to suffer for it. 

With a bellow, Éowyn raised her sword and brought it down with all her strength on the sinewy neck of the great beast. It cut deep, and the thing let out another deafening shriek. Éowyn hacked again and again, the blood spurting up and coating her in warm wetness. The head fell to the ground, its snarls turning to rattling gurgles. The huge body sank to the earth, a cloud of dust rising around it.

Ever so slowly, the wraith turned its nonexistent face towards Éowyn. She braced herself against her sword and tried not to flinch. It was as if all the grief, all the pain, all the bitterness she had ever felt was rising up in a great wave, threatening to drown her. 

The wraith considered her as it leisurely slid down from the body of its steed. It twirled its mace in its hand. 

“Don’t you know,” it said, in a voice that seemed to contain an echo of Gríma’s scornful tone, “that no mortal man can kill me? Your pathetic sword can do nothing to the lord of the Nazgûl.”

_ Good gods, it’s speechifying,  _ Éowyn thought to herself. 

“Go ahead,” the wraith continued.“Try and run away. It won’t do you any good. I will catch you, and you will die slowly.”

“Unfortunately for you,” Éowyn said, shifting into a fighting stance, “I actually have other plans. Slow death sounds great, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass on it for today. Thanks, but no thanks.” 

The wraith growled in outrage and swung its mace downwards. Éowyn dodged, coughing on the dust. 

“You must be out of practice,” Éowyn managed to choke out. “That missed me by about three fucking miles.”

“You will regret your arrogant words, little boy,” snapped the wraith, raising its mace again. 

Before Éowyn could dodge, the mace came whistling down. She raised her shield in a feeble attempt to protect her head from being smashed like an overripe melon. 

_ For future reference,  _ said the dispassionate voice,  _ taunting the literal embodiment of darkness may not be a good choice. But of course, you won’t have a future to consider after this.  _

The mace’s impact sent Éowyn tumbling to the ground with a screech. She heard something in her arm crack. Pain shot through her as her arm bounced against the ground. Her shield rolled away, pitted and mangled beyond repair. 

Éowyn rolled to the side and retched. That could’ve been her head. She whimpered, tears leaking from beneath her closed eyelids.

A shadow fell over her. She slowly blinked her eyes open, her vision blurry. The wraith-lord loomed over her, its mace raised for the final blow. 

“Come, come,” it gloated. “Get up. Don’t you want to die like a  _ man _ ? Or would you rather perish like the mewling kitten that you are?”

Éowyn slowly pushed herself up, her left arm hanging uselessly at her side. She gripped her sword in her other hand, using it as a crutch. She was going to die. And, to be honest, now that the moment had arrived, she desperately didn’t want to. 

But she refused to crawl and beg for mercy. This thing could go fuck itself. It wouldn’t get the satisfaction of watching her scrape and plead. 

The wraith sighed. “It’s a pity, really,” it said, its voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You couldn’t have won. It was prophesied long before you were born--no man can kill me. You will die a  _ failure _ . You will die  _ alone. _ You will never be remembered as anything other than a disgrace.”

Through the spots dancing across her vision, Éowyn saw something small moving behind the wraith. Something holding a dagger clutched in one hand. 

Éowyn gritted her teeth and smiled. “No,” she said softly. “I won’t die at all. Not by your hand, at least. Because I am no man. And I am not alone.”

And, with the last of her strength, she stabbed upwards, right where the wraith’s heart should have been. At the same time, the small figure darted forwards and plunged its knife into the wraith’s misty calf. 

A horrible wail knocked Éowyn off her feet. She watched the wraith’s armor crash to the ground, dark smoke pouring out to mix with the mist of battle. The helmet rolled to a stop beside Éowyn, empty, lifeless. 

Éowyn felt a small hand on her chest. 

“No,” a voice croaked, sounding very far away, “No, Dernhelm, please don’t die, not now, it’s gone, Dernhelm, Dernhelm. . .please wake up. . .” The voice began to fade away into sobs, and Éowyn felt a weight sink onto her, as if the someone speaking had fallen down. 

Very slowly, Éowyn lifted her numb hand and wriggled her fingers into the small ones over her heart. 

“Thank. . .you. . .Merry,” she whispered, gently shaking the hand. 

“And. . .goodbye.” 

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sweet lovelies, can you do me a favor before we begin? It won't take long, don't worry. Just take your disbelief and. . .suspend it. Over the void or wherever you want to. And then turn around and slam the door on it and lock that door and maybe push a chair up against it for extra security. Okay, you can keep going now. Thank you!! :)

Éowyn blinked awake to find herself lying--no, it was more like floating--in misty greyness. It was neither hot nor cold, hard nor soft, and was completely silent. Éowyn sat up and looked around. Blank greyness as far as she could see. 

She rose to her feet. It was rather disconcerting to be standing on nothing, but she didn’t seem to be in danger of falling, so she supposed it was all right. She rubbed her head. A dim anxiety plucked at her, filling her chest with a suffocating dread. She’d been doing something important, hadn’t she? But what had it been? There was something she needed to go back to. . .but as she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember the pressing thing she had forgotten, the thought slipped away. 

Éowyn shook herself and began to walk, or rather glide, through the mist. Maybe there would be someone who could tell her about the thing she’d forgotten. And maybe they could tell her where she was too, because she found she didn’t know. She’d get some directions, and then she’d hurry back to do . . .whatever she’d been doing. 

As she drifted along through the nothingness, Éowyn screwed up her eyes, searching for any sign of life, and found absolutely nothing.

Which was why it was a rather nasty surprise when a large, dark shape loomed out of the fog before her. Éowyn found that, while she apparently could move, she didn’t know how to  _ stop _ . She sailed gently into the object in front of her and felt roughness rub against her cheek. She stretched her hands out, feeling around in front of her. 

_ Okay,  _ Éowyn thought to herself.  _ This is getting really strange. Why is there a tree here? I don’t think there’s any ground for it to grow in, and besides, who would have planted a tree in. . .wherever this is? _

She patted the tough bark. “How did you get here, my friend?” she asked, if only to hear a sound in the vast silence.

“Well,” the tree replied, “How did any of us get here?”

Éowyn pulled her hand back as if the tree had grown teeth and bitten her. She must be losing her mind. Trees didn’t talk. She definitely remembered that. And yet, she had distinctly heard a voice. 

“Er. . .tree, did you just talk?” Éowyn inquired of the tree, proud that her voice shook only a little.

“Not the  _ tree _ ,” the voice said, sounding faintly amused. “I’m over here.”

Éowyn managed to slowly turn her head, and found herself looking into the kind eyes of a woman, seated at a table nearby. The woman had rich brown skin, which seemed to faintly shimmer against the featureless clouds of grey, and her long, dark hair fell in a myriad of tiny braids over her shoulders. She was smiling serenely at Éowyn.

“Hello, dear,” she said. “Why don’t you come sit down?”

~ ~ ~

Without quite knowing how she got there, Éowyn found herself seated across from the woman, who was placidly pouring steaming tea into two cups. She slid one across the table to Éowyn.

“Here, you look like you could use something hot,” she said kindly. 

Éowyn cupped her hands around her cup. It was warm to the touch, and carved with leaves and flowers. It felt very real. The steam against Éowyn’s face was fragrant and moist. 

“Before you ask,” said the woman, “you’re dreaming right now. Only part of you is here.”

“Oh,” Éowyn said tremulously. “That’s. . .not very reassuring. Where is the other part of me?”

The woman closed her eyes. “I believe you are currently lying in bed somewhere in Minas Tirith.”

Éowyn nearly spit out her mouthful of tea. “That’s it! I’m supposed to be fighting, I’ve got to go back!”

The woman opened her eyes and shook her head. “I’m afraid you can’t, not quite yet. But don’t worry, the battle is over now. Thanks to you.” 

Éowyn set her teacup firmly down. “Not to be rude or anything,” she said cooly, “but can you explain exactly what you mean?”

The woman smiled and sipped her tea. “I’m sorry. I should’ve done that right at the beginning. Sometimes time becomes so twisted for me, I forget what I have and have not done. But anyways, my most common name is Nienna. Often, I’m called the Lady of Sorrows, or the Weeping Goddess. If you wish, you may call me ‘Grandmother.’ And you, Éowyn, are here because I called you. When you defeated the Witch-King, you see, some great energies were released into the world, and those energies are currently at war within your body. I summoned your spirit here for safekeeping until you either return to the world or continue on beyond it.”

Éowyn crossed her arms. “Okay. Sure. This can’t get any odder, so I’m just going to trust you and go with it. But how do you even know me? If you’re really a goddess, or whatever, why are you bothering with me? I’m not special.”

Nienna took another swallow of tea and sighed. “Because, Éowyn, I am invoked whenever a living thing is in pain. The greater the sorrow, the more my power is drawn upon. And you carry so much sadness and hurt within yourself. I want to help you set it free.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “Thanks, but I don’t need help. I’m fine the way I am. So I think I’ll be going now.”

Nienna reached out and patted Éowyn’s hand. “You know,” she said gently, “True strength does not mean bearing everything alone. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but I assure you that it is  _ not _ weakness to accept help when you are suffering.”

Éowyn opened her mouth and found it empty of the angry retort she had prepared. Instead, she settled for a bitter snort of laughter. How dare this complete stranger swoop in and act as if Éowyn needed her! She wasn’t lonely, or suffering, or in need of anyone’s comfort! Right? 

“No, actually,” Nienna said, as if she had heard Éowyn’s thoughts. “That is your anger speaking. You have a right to be angry, Éowyn, but you have let your rage overwhelm who you are. You need to  _ let go _ . You have built walls around your innermost self, and they will crush you if you do not knock them down.”

Éowyn squeezed the edge of the table so hard her knuckles turned white. “ _ Let go!?  _ What do you mean?! I’m supposed to let go of the fact that my cousin is dead, that only two people have ever really believed in me, that I have had to fight for everything I have ever wanted in this life?! Yes, I’ve built walls around my heart, because as soon as a girl shows any weakness, the world jumps in to pry her apart.” Éowyn paused for breath, then continued speaking, her voice sounding very small in the quiet.

“Do you think I  _ wanted _ this? Do you think I wanted to be hurt, over and over and over again? To have to always be stronger, faster, better, so that I wouldn’t lose what I had made for myself? Because I didn’t. I built my walls from necessity, not from fear or anger or whatever else you think. My armor is who I am, so don’t just tell me to let it go.”

Nienna gave a deep sigh and sipped her tea. “I understand. I am not trying to be callous. But I also do not like seeing anyone--especially not someone with the amount of spirit that you have--waste their life in sorrowing. Or worse, tear themselves apart from the inside.” 

Éowyn crossed her arms. “Whoa there, I thought you said you were the goddess of sadness and pain or something. Why  _ wouldn’t  _ you want to see people cry and suffer?”

Nienna raised her eyes, and Éowyn saw the vaguest suggestion of anger there. A tiny thread of fear crawled up her backbone, but Nienna smiled again, softly, all traces of fury fading. Maybe Éowyn had imagined it.

“Éowyn,” Nienna said. “I am the patron of the suffering, but my domain lies in  _ healing _ , not in eternal pain.” She laughed and shook her head. “Imagine what the world would be like if everyone was constantly ripping open old wounds, rather than letting them scar into memory! It would certainly be a much darker place, no? Darker than it had to be.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Éowyn said to her clasped hands. 

“I disagree. I think you know exactly what I’m speaking of. But there is quite a big difference between knowing something and believing it, isn’t there?”

Éowyn stayed stubbornly silent, watching the steam curl up from the surface of her tea. She heard Nienna give another gentle sigh, like the wind rustling the grass on the plains around Edoras. 

“All right,” Nienna said finally. “I’m going to speak quite plainly now. You, Éowyn, are at a crossroads in your life: you can choose to live, to really make use of the time in this world you have been allotted, or you can choose to move beyond it. It’s up to you.”

Éowyn looked up, staring into Nienna’s beautiful, serious face. “I don’t have a choice. I’m dying, aren’t I? It’s what was always meant to happen.” She gulped. “This is how things should be. I was never supposed to live.”

Nienna suddenly stood up, her silky robes swirling around her. Her dark eyes flashed. “Éowyn! You  _ always _ have a choice! Your destiny is your own to sculpt as you will! And you can choose to be  _ happy _ !”

A familiar lump rose in Éowyn’s throat. “Nienna, I can’t,” she whispered. “Théodred is gone. It would be the most selfish thing in this whole fucking world to just dance along as if everything was perfect. Because it’s not.”

Nienna folded her arms, staring down at Éowyn with bright, burning eyes. “It is not a betrayal of those you’ve lost to continue to live. You are strong enough, capable enough, and capacious enough to live a life containing both sorrow and joy. It is not a choice between one or the other--it is a balance between the two. It is not  _ wrong  _ to love life, even if it is a life without someone you cared for. Your life is not a tragedy--it is a tapestry, and it’s  _ yours. _ ”

It was as if a dam broke somewhere deep in Éowyn’s chest. Because, beneath the anger and fear and bitterness that had roiled there for so long, a glimmer of hope--the first gleam she had seen for longer than she could remember--shone like a lantern in the darkness. She knew--and she believed--that Nienna was right. She couldn’t say why, that answer was beyond words, but she felt it in her very bones. Suddenly, the choice was very obvious. 

Éowyn raised her head, holding it tall and proud. She looked into the twin fires of Nienna’s eyes and let it kindle her own. 

“I choose to live,” she said, letting her voice echo through the silence. “I choose love.”

Nienna smiled. “I am proud of you, Éowyn Braveheart. But it is time we said goodbye. I must return to my duties, and you, my dear, have a life to live. And someone is waiting for you. Do you hear that?”

Éowyn strained her ears. Dimly, as if it was coming through layers of thick cloth, she heard a voice calling her name, over and over again. 

“Éowyn! ÉOWYN! Come  _ back _ ! Don’t be an  _ idiot _ ! You get back here!”

Éowyn glanced back at Nienna and lifted her hand in a small salute. “Goodbye. And. . . thank you.”

Nienna smiled and nodded, her form wavering and beginning to fade. 

And, with a deep breath, Éowyn took a step toward the voice. And back into the world. 

~ ~ ~

She was staring up at a cream-colored ceiling, with squares of sunlight thrown across it from a large window. She could feel the weight of blankets wrapped around her like a cocoon. It would’ve been pleasant, except for the fact that she felt as if an entire herd of horses had trampled through her mind and had continued on their merry way across her body. Or maybe it was more like the feeling a limp cabbage leaf would have after lying in the mud during a busy Market Day? Éowyn considered this seriously. Her thoughts seemed to be moving slower than usual. Hm. . .maybe she felt like a limp cabbage leaf that had been trampled on by several energetic wild horses. Yes, that was it. 

Wincing, she turned her head to the side, and realized that she was not alone. A young man sat in a chair beside her, deeply absorbed in a book. Dark curls fell over his forehead and down around his face. He was close enough that she could see how they swayed as he breathed. He turned a page, apparently oblivious to the fact that he was being watched. He reached up to brush a wayward lock of hair away from his face. There was something charmingly innocent about the gesture, and Éowyn, to her immense surprise, found herself giving a little snort of laughter.

The young man jerked up, a smile spreading across his features when he met her eyes.

“You’re awake!” he said cheerfully. “Welcome back, hero of the hour. You had us really worried there, you know. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Should I fetch one of the healers?”

Éowyn blinked dazedly, befuddled by the torrent of words. 

“Um . . .er. . .you’re not a healer?” she asked feebly. 

The young man laughed and shook his head. “No. The healers are so overwhelmed that they’re having their stronger patients--like me--take care of those who are mending--or dying. My name is Faramir.” He stood up, leaving his book facedown on his seat, and began busily straightening Éowyn’s blankets, still talking. 

“Everyone’s talking about you in the city. We all--well, not me, I was sick--saw the huge black cloud that came up when you killed the lord of the Nine. From what the herbalists tell me, it loomed over Minas Tirith for a moment and then blew away, just completely gone. And that’s when the tide turned for us, that and the king showing up.”

“King?” Éowyn managed to squeak. “What king?”

Faramir sat down on the bed beside her. “Oh, don’t you know the legend? That the true king of Gondor would return eventually to claim his birthright and take up his crown?”

Éowyn shook her head, feeling horribly ignorant and slow. Faramir just smiled. 

“That’s the gist of it, anyways. I can tell you the whole thing later. But the king from the legend was here. He healed you.”

A sneaking thread of suspicion wormed its way into the back of Éowyn’s mind. 

“What’s his name?” she asked as nonchalantly as she could. 

“Aragorn,” Faramir replied. “But he has an awful lot of names for one man. Everyone seemed to call him something different.”

Éowyn couldn’t hold back a smile. So he had survived. Good for him. Suddenly, she jerked half up, her arm protesting. Faramir gave a little cry and reached out, grasping her shoulders. 

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?! Are you all right? Should I get a healer?”

“My friend,” Éowyn gasped out, “The halfling, Merry. Did he. . .is he. . .did he survive?”

Faramir’s face relaxed. “The halfling? He’s fine. I haven’t seen him, but apparently he’s giving the healers a real time of it. He keeps trying to get up and find you, I heard. Also asking for pipeweed. He’s quite the character.”

Éowyn exhaled. “Thank the gods.” She paused, gathering her strength. “And. . .my uncle? King Théoden, I mean? Did he. . .?”

Faramir looked away, all traces of merriment sliding from his face. He slowly shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Éowyn,” he said softly. “I am so, so sorry.”

It was foolish to have thought that she could glue her heart back together again. She could almost hear the tiny shards falling down, down melting into nothing. Maybe it was better to have no heart than to feel this pain again. 

Éowyn became aware that someone was sobbing, and that someone seemed to be her. Faramir was still looking down, twisting his hands in his lap. Was it her blurred vision, or were his shoulders shaking too? 

Ignoring the fresh blooms of pain, Éowyn pulled herself across the bed and wrapped her good arm around Faramir, burying her head in his shoulder. She could hear him whimpering, tiny, small sounds like a wounded animal. 

He was a complete stranger, but Éowyn found that she didn’t have the energy to care. He was solid and warm and was something to hold onto as the world fell to pieces around her for the second time. So she clung to him, and he clung to her; sailors drowning in a stormy sea, sailors keeping each other afloat. 

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

She must have eventually cried herself back into slumber, because when she next woke, it was early evening, and someone was vigorously tugging at her blankets.

“Dernhelm-not-actually-Dernhelm! Wake up, buddy! I’ve been trying to get in here for hours now!”

Éowyn turned her head and looked into the bright, dancing eyes of Merry. His nose was nearly touching her own. She grinned weakly at him and wriggled herself into a semi-seated position.

“Merry! Are you all right?”

Merry laughed and clambered onto the bed beside her. 

“Right as rain! That armored bastard gave me a nasty turn, but I’m feeling fine now.” He wrinkled his eyebrows in consternation. “But your poor arm. I wish I could do something.” He rifled in his pockets, pulling out a crumpled wad of leaves.

“Can I offer you some pipeweed? It’s all I’ve got; good Shire stock too.”

Éowyn laughed. “No, but thank you. You’re already helping enough just by being here.”

Merry shrugged. “I try my best.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at Éowyn. “Hey, do you want me to keep calling you ‘Dernhelm?’”

Éowyn giggled. “I mean, you can if you want, I guess, but my real name is Éowyn.”

Merry gasped and clapped his hands. “That’s so perfect! Because, you know, you Éo-WIN against Ringwraiths! Get it? ‘Cause you beat the Witch-King?”

Éowyn shook her head. “That was bad.”

“Harsh! Maybe it needs a little work, but I think it’s got the makings of something bards could throw around.”

“Sorry, Merry, she’s right, it was abysmal,” laughed a new voice. Éowyn looked over and met Faramir’s dark eyes. He was leaning in the doorway, looking entertained. He gave Éowyn a little wave.

Merry threw up his hands. “Everybody’s a critic!”

Faramir shrugged. “I’m just honest, that’s all.”

Merry pitched himself across Éowyn’s legs in a fit of melodramatic fainting. Éowyn couldn’t hold back a squawk of pain. 

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry!” Merry cried, jerking back. “I didn’t think! Are you okay?”

Éowyn unclenched her hands from their fold of blanket. “Don’t worry about it. Just give me some warning next time you want to lie on my knees.”

Faramir had come anxiously forward, and bent down to rest a hand on Éowyn’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Éowyn  rolled her eyes. “ _Yes_. Both of you need to stop acting like mama hens.”

“Uh-uh, no,” Merry said, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. “We’re gonna be mother-henning until you’re all better. You can’t get away from us! Your brother specifically told us to take care of you, and I don’t go back on my word!”

Éowyn looked up at Faramir. “Is Éomer here? Can I see him?” she asked anxiously.

Faramir’s face fell and he shook his head. “He and most of the other warriors left before you woke up for the first time. They’ve gone to the Black Gate. I don’t know exactly what they’re planning. Something about a distraction, I think. But he sends his love to you.”

Éowyn fell back on her pillows, Merry still draped around her. 

“The Black Gate?! But. . .but. . .no one comes back from there.”

Faramir looked away. “Well, Aragorn got through the Paths of the Dead. If anyone can come back from Mordor, it’s him. And he’ll get your brother back to you.”

But something in Faramir’s tone betrayed that he wasn’t very sure. Éowyn closed her eyes, trying to hold in the tears that were threatening to overflow. 

“Hey, Dern--Éowyn,” Merry said gently. “Listen, it’ll all be okay in the end. Things will turn out right.”

“I don’t need your fake reassurance! He’s going to die, just like everyone else, because the universe just  _ loves _ leaving me alone!” Éowyn snapped, before she could stop herself. She felt Merry stiffen and draw backwards. If her eyes had been open, she would’ve seen the look of surprise and hurt on his face. 

_ True strength doesn’t mean bearing everything alone _ . Nienna’s words floated back to Éowyn, and she felt a hot trickle of shame in her gut. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, wiping them with her sleeve.

“I’m sorry, Merry. That. . .that was wrong. I shouldn’t have said that. I really appreciate that you’re here. I’m just. . .scared. I’m really scared.”

Merry put a hand on her arm. “I get it. You really love your brother, and I know it’s hard to be left behind when someone you love goes into danger. Trust me, I’ve been there. But I think the least we can do is believe that they're all going to come out all right.”

Éowyn slowly nodded. “I’ll try.”

Merry swiped at his eyes and sniffled. “And I know it probably doesn’t matter much, but even if the worst happened, you wouldn’t be alone. I’d be here.”

Faramir sat down on her other side and put his hand on her shoulder again. “And I’m not going anywhere either. You can’t get rid of us mama hens that easily. We’re a tough breed. Made to cling.”

Éowyn smiled, if a little sadly. “I. . .thanks. You both are great. Especially since you barely even know me.”

Merry laughed and settled himself more comfortably beside her. “Well, what a perfect time this is for you to tell us everything, then!”

So, with quite a bit of laughing, eyes that were not always precisely dry, and a healthy dose of snuggling (mostly on Merry’s part, Faramir was content to remain where he was), she did. 

~ ~ ~

A few days passed before Éowyn regained enough strength to walk slowly up and down the hallways of the healers’ compound and through the small, orderly herb garden where bees buzzed and leaves rustled just as if everything was perfectly normal. Merry often accompanied her on her little jaunts, and took the opportunity to tell her about his large family in the Shire, far away. Éowy enjoyed the stories of wild cousin so-and-so or persnickety aunt this-and-that much more than she let on. There was something infinitely comforting about feeling the warm sun on her back and listening to Merry’s cheerful chatter. It was the closest that she got to a respite from her whirling thoughts. They rarely discussed the war. Whenever she tried to steer the conversation in that direction, Éowyn was met by a new Shire story. She rather suspected that Faramir had instructed Merry to keep her from brooding, as he called it, on the things that were out of her control. Like Éomer’s safety. 

Her nights were filled with vivid dreams that she could never fully recall by morning. She saw two small figures picking their way through a rocky wasteland, a woman in white pouring water into a large bowl, a dark, towering fortress that glowed with greenish light, and glimpses of a thousand other things she could never place. They unsettled her, even when the sun rose and chased away the night’s shadows. She took to sneaking out to lie among the herbs and flowers. She found the dreams less oppressive there, out under the stars and surrounded by the chirping of crickets. She would be damp and dirty by morning, but she figured it was all right as long as she took care to keep her bandages out of the soil. 

But when Faramir found her asleep in a patch of lemon verbena one night, he didn’t seem to share her opinion. He fussed and ran his fingers through his hair and wrinkled up his eyebrows until Éowyn told him he looked like a sick hound (Merry giggled at that one).

After a whole afternoon of squabbling, Faramir finally admitted defeat.

“Fine!” he said, throwing up his hands. “But I draw the line at you sleeping on the ground. You’ll catch a cold faster than you can say ‘bad idea.’”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “Where am I supposed to sleep then? Hanging from a tree branch like a bat?”

“Ooh, that would be amazing,” Merry said enthusiastically from his perch on the windowsill.

Faramir groaned. “You’re both impossible. I’ll figure something out.”

Éowyn and Merry watched the door close behind him and listened to his steps retreat down the hallway. 

“Hey, Éowyn,” Merry said, sliding off the sill and seating himself beside her. “Do you like Faramir?”

Éowyn gave him a sidelong glance. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

Merry grinned and propped his chin on his hands. “Okay, do you think he’s handsome?”

Éowyn blinked in surprise. “I mean, like. . .he’s got a face. Two eyes, a nose, everything’s where it should be. So I guess he’s fine-looking. I don’t know. Why do you even care?”

Merry shrugged unconvincingly, still grinning widely. “Oh, no reason.”

Éowyn turned herself fully so she could stare hard at Merry. “That’s a load of shite. Are you trying to play matchmaker or something?”

Merry giggled. “No-o-o. . .”

Éowyn grunted. “Seriously? You’re a terrible liar, Merry.”

Merry held up his hands. “I just think it would be cute, that’s all! But forget I said anything!”

Éowyn shook her head. “Gods preserve me from your machinations.”

Merry lay back with a serene smile and closed his eyes. “ _ I  _ think he’s pretty for one. And I’m observant. Also, you’re blushing.”

Éowyn pulled her blanket over her face and groaned. 

~ ~ ~

Faramir returned just as the sun was beginning to sink towards the western horizon. He was humming happily to himself, and there was a new bounce in his step. 

“You look like the cat who got the cream. What happened?” Éowyn asked.

Faramir rose and his toes and twirled around. “I told you I’d figure it out! And I did.”

Éowyn raised an eyebrow. “Okay. What is it that you figured out?”

“How you can sleep outside and not catch a chill! You’ll have to go to the upper ring, but I think you’ll love it.”

Éowyn frowned. “I don’t think I can walk that far.”

Faramir grinned. “I thought of that already. Come on, if we go now we’ll get to watch the sunset. Merry said he doesn’t want to come, so don’t worry about him.”

Éowyn swung her legs slowly out of bed and stood up. “You seem so pleased with yourself that I just can’t say no.”

Faramir just smiled and slipped his arm through hers. 

~ ~ ~

“Okay,” Éowyn said, staring at the platform in front of her. “You’re saying that we’re going to just climb into that rickety little box and sail away?”

Faramir nodded. “Yep! It’s perfectly safe; Mithrandir built it when I was a child. I’ve used it all my life.”

Éowyn sighed. “You know, you Gondor people are weird. Just ride a horse. Why do you need a box on a cable?”

Faramir ushered her up the steps and practically shoved her into the strange, hanging vehicle. 

“Just give it a chance, that’s all I’m asking.”

Éowyn squished herself into the corner and watched apprehensively as Faramir fiddled with some knobs and levers. 

“What are you doing--oh shit!” Éowyn yelped, as the box suddenly rattled into motion and began whizzing up its cable at an alarming rate. 

Faramir laughed, the breeze making his curls fly wildly around his face.

“Mithrandir made this for my mother when she was pregnant with me! It’s so she didn’t have to walk up the steeper hills!” he hollered over the rushing of the wind. “Isn’t it fun?”

Éowyn vehemently shook her head, her eyes squeezed shut. Faramir patted her elbow consolingly. 

“You’ll get used to it after a few times. Come on, open your eyes. You get the best views of the city from here.”

Cautiously, Éowyn opened one eye and looked out. Minas Tirith lay spread out below, its white buildings tinged pink and orange by the setting sun. The spires on the rooftops gleamed like molten gold. 

The city dipped and turned sickeningly as the cart swayed and Éowyn stumbled. Faramir grabbed her shoulders, careful not to jostle her injured arm.

“It’s okay! We’re pretty high up, so sometimes we just hit crosswinds.”

“ _ Gods _ ,” Éowyn choked out. Faramir gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Just look at the city. It’s pretty, no?” 

Éowyn had to nod. “Yes. It’s beautiful. But. . .ergh, so  _ high _ .”

Faramir looked like he was about to say more, but just at that moment, they came to a stop with a jerk.

Faramir opened the small door and they stepped (or, in Éowyn’s case, wobbled) out onto the top of a wall and began walking. Éowyn carefully looked away from the city below and turned her eyes toward the garden below them. It was lush and manicured, filled with flowers of every color, their scents mingling in the air. Fountains gurgled, colored gold by the light of the setting sun. Trees arched gracefully over shaded stone pathways, and birds twittered in the branches.

“Are we allowed to be here?” Éowyn asked. Faramir stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”

Éowyn gestured at the garden. “This is too nice to be public.”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably. “We’re allowed,” he repeated. 

Éowyn glanced at him. He didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Faramir, who  _ does  _ this garden belong to?”

“Me,” Faramir said, his voice nearly inaudible. 

Éowyn nearly tripped over her own feet. “You? But. . .but. . .”

Faramir turned away. “My father was the Steward. This is the Tower garden. Okay?”

“You never told me about your father,” Éowyn said, surprise mingling with annoyance.

Faramir crossed his arms and kept walking. “Did I have to?” he snapped. 

Éowyn broke into a trot to catch up. “Why are you so angry? It’s not like it matters.”

Faramir whirled around. “‘Not like it  _ matters _ ?!’ It matters to me!”

“Well, if it matters to you so much,  _ Prince  _ Faramir, why didn’t you tell me?!”

Faramir’s eyes widened and he recoiled as if she’d slapped him. “Because of things like what you just said, that’s why. It’s pretty damn hard to have friends when people are obligated to give you whatever you want, did you know that? So just this one time, I wanted to just be me, and not be the second-best prince of Gondor.” He sighed heavily. “ But I guess that was stupid.”

Éowyn reached out a hand, but Faramir jerked away and kept walking, his shoulders hunched.

_ Great job,  _ Éowyn thought to herself.  _ Of course you just had to go and say the wrong thing. That’s what you do best, idiot. _

Unbidden, Nienna’s voice echoed in Éowyn’s mind.  _ You have let your rage overwhelm who you are.  _

Éowyn bit her lip and hurried after Faramir. She’d fix this. She wasn’t going to inflict her own pain on anyone else. It hadn’t been fair when she’d done it before, and it was all-out wrong now. 

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is one tiny instance here of implied abuse, so if that bothers you, skip the part of Faramir's tale that takes place just after Boromir's death.

The shadows had lengthened and the sky was pale violet when Faramir turned down a stairway into the garden, still walking hunched over, his hands in the pockets of his jacket. Whenever Éowyn drew closer, he sped up, until eventually, out-of-breath, she slowed. 

They stopped at the base of a huge silver beech tree.

“You can go up,” Faramir said expressionlessly, gesturing to the curving set of small steps that had been built against the wide trunk. 

“Are you still mad?” Éowyn asked. It sounded pathetic even to her.

Faramir turned away. “Of course not,” he said carelessly, and walked ahead of her up the steps.

_ I wish Merry were here,  _ Éowyn thought to herself as she climbed after him, clutching the thin bannister with her good hand.  _ I feel like he’d know what to do. Maybe this is why I never had friends; I just hurt them and then don’t even know how to fix it. _

But Éowyn was distracted from her melancholy musings by the sight that met her eyes around the final curve of the staircase. 

Among the silvery branches of the tree, there was a sort of roofed platform, open to the air and wide enough for two or three people to sit comfortably. Cushions, rather worn and dusty, but still colorful, were stacked on the floor. A few piles of books sat beside them. Faramir was kneeling at the center, lighting a lantern. He was facing her, and she could see something glistening on his cheeks. Was he crying? 

Before she could look closer, he turned away.

“I thought you might want to sleep up here. It’s more comfortable than the garden, at any rate. But you can go if you don’t like it.”

Éowyn ducked under the lintel and seated herself on one of the cushions.

“No, of course not! This is lovely. Thank you.”

Faramir curled up in the opposite corner, leaning on one of the bolsters. He didn’t meet her eyes. Silence filled the air, broken only by the rustling of leaves.

_ Say something nice!  _ Éowyn mentally chided herself.  _ Say something kind and. . .and witty, and perfect! _

Instead, her stomach growled. Éowyn prayed to whatever gods might have a moment to spare that her end of the platform might spontaneously collapse and dump her into a convenient pit--preferably of the everlasting sort. But, regrettably, the gods were busy.

Without looking up, Faramir kicked a packet towards her.

“If you want to eat, there’s some stuff in there.”

“Thanks,” Éowyn managed to choke out, reaching for the satchel. Faramir opened a book and didn’t reply. 

Éowyn nibbled on some sort of sweet, sticky dried fruit. Still, the empathetic, smooth, reassuring thing she had meant to say didn’t make itself known. 

“Er. . .um. . .what are you reading?” Éowyn finally squeaked when the silence became unbearable. 

Faramir wordlessly held out the book, pages out, towards Éowyn. She leaned forwards to see.

The flickering candlelight illuminated pages filled with drawings. They were rough, as if done by a child, but there was a simplicity and beauty in them that made Éowyn’s mouth curve in a small smile.

The pictures primarily seemed to be of the same family, over and over again. There was a bearded, proud-looking man, a smiling woman, and two small boys. Sometimes there was a dog. Occasionally an older woman with a bent back and the same smile as the mother. 

Éowyn turned the pages, and watched the boys grow up and the drawings become more complex. The mother appeared more and more frequently, each time seeming thinner. The final picture of her showed her sitting on a bench beneath a tree. One of the children was kneeling at her feet, his head in her lap. The scarf tied around her shoulders had slipped off, and Éowyn saw with surprise that she no longer had hair. 

After that, the drawings changed. New lines appeared around the father’s eyes, and he lost his happy, gracious expression. The boys became young men, dressed in armor and seated grimly on warhorses. 

When Éowyn turned the next page, all she saw was an expanse of blank white and the dancing shadows cast by the lantern. She flipped to the back of the book. Nothing. The drawings had stopped. She looked up at Faramir.

“Did you draw these?” Éowyn asked.

Faramir sighed and rested the book on his lap, stroking the leather cover with gentle fingers.

“No. My brother did.”

~ ~ ~

Éowyn nearly dropped her chunk of bread. “Your brother?! You never said you had a brother!”

Faramir folded his arms. “Oh, is that another thing I should’ve told you about?” he said, venom in his voice. 

Éowyn bit her lip and looked away. “I’m sorry. . .”

Faramir groaned and flopped onto his back. “Don’t bother. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m being an ass to you, and that’s not okay. I’m the one who should be apologizing.”

Éowyn scooted forwards until she was sitting next to him. “Don’t you dare steal my apology, Faramir. I was an ass first, so your asshole-ery was deserved. I never should’ve said what I said before. It wasn’t my business. So  _ I’m _ the one who’s sorry. It’s my apology, so keep your sticky fingers off it.”

For a horrible moment, Éowyn thought that Faramir was crying again. But when he turned his face towards her, she saw that he was laughing.

“Éowyn” he gasped out, in between snorts, “You are the only person I know who could apologize like that and have it be the most genuine thing I’ve heard for months. Thank you.”

Éowyn shrugged, slightly abashed. “You’re not furious anymore?”

With an effort, Faramir swallowed his laughter and sat up. “I never  _ was _ furious,” he said seriously. “I was sad. Because I thought you hated me.”

Éowyn rested her chin in her hands. “Oh. Um. Do you. . .do you want to. . . talk about it?”

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Are you taking leaves out of Merry’s book, Éowyn?”

Éowyn raised her hands to cover her face. “I’m bad at feelings, okay?! And Merry’s good at that kind of stuff! It just seemed like something he would say!”

Faramir smiled and settled himself more comfortably on his cushions. “Don’t worry, it was very well done. But since you think you’re ‘bad at feelings,’ I don’t have to tell you about mine.”

Éowyn picked up another one of the sticky fruits. “I can listen. If you want, I mean.”

“Sure,” Faramir said, and smiled again. 

(A little voice in the back of Éowyn’s mind remarked that it was a very nice smile indeed.)

~ ~ ~

“When I was born, my father was very different from how he was in more recent times,” Faramir began, watching the flame in the lantern flicker. “He was kinder, happier, in love with his wife--my mother--and the whole world. He built this spot for my brother, Boromir, and me when we were children. But when my mother died, he. . .changed. He would lock himself up in his study for days and days sometimes. People said he was trying to find a way to reclaim my mother from death. But I don’t know if that’s really true.” He shrugged at Éowyn. “Anyways, Boromir basically raised me after our mother was gone. I still don’t know how he managed it. He was only nine when she died, and I was five.” Faramir stroked the sketchbook tenderly and sighed. “But he did, with some help from Mithrandir. And somehow, during all that, he also became the pride and joy of the city. He was brave and strong and so, so kind. Everyone, even our father, loved him.”

Éowyn wrinkled her brow. “Were you jealous?”

Faramir laughed. “Maybe a little; it was hard not to be, but how could I have been truly jealous? My brother showered me with so much love, and he made it clear, even if others didn’t, that he thought I was the gods’ gift to the world. People would say, ‘Prince Boromir, you’re so talented at this-or-that, your father must be so proud!’” Faramir smiled. “And he would say, ‘Thank you, but have you seen my little brother, Faramir? Yesterday he read his first real book. Isn’t that magnificent?’ And he was completely serious, every time. So it wasn’t until I was almost a man that I figured out that our father liked him better than he liked me.”

Faramir paused. The chirping of crickets in the garden below filled the air. Éowyn sat still, watching him.

With a heavy sigh, Faramir continued. “Even then, it was all right. Boromir deserved each and every one of the honors he was given. I was proud of him, and I tried my best to be as like him as I could. He was the darling of the city, and I was. . .there too. The extra.” He laughed mirthlessly. “And our father made sure that I knew that I was dispensable. He sent me on the most dangerous missions and out to the most far-flung garrisons. I think he half-hoped I would die so he could stop having to deal with the problem of what to do with his younger son. So it wasn’t a surprise when he told me I would make the perilous journey to Imladris and represent Gondor there. At, essentially, a meeting. A very important meeting, but still, a meeting.” Faramir sighed, his eyes far away and full of sadness. Éowyn reached out and touched his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, flashing her a quick smile. “Got distracted. But anyways, Boromir, against every protocol known to man, went to our father and told him that I wasn’t going, he was. They argued, I think. I was on a mission at the time, so I don’t know. But in the end, Boromir replaced me as the representative of Gondor. I tried to dissuade him, but. . .well, he had always protected me, and he wasn’t about to stop. My brother could be  _ very _ stubborn when he wanted to. So he left. My father didn’t speak to me for weeks.” Faramir bit his lip and swiped at his eyes. “And then. . .well, we got news that Boromir was dead. My father spoke to me then. He raved and screamed and tore his hair and told me I was a disgrace and a coward and that it should’ve been me who was lying dead in Anduin.” Unconsciously, Faramir’s hand rose to touch his cheek, as if in response to some unspoken memory of pain.

Éowyn clenched her fists. “Your father was an absolute abomination.”

Faramir shrugged. “But it  _ is  _ my fault. Everyone knew it. Boromir’s soldiers ignored me--at best. The whole city whispered behind me back, that I’d asked Boromir to go in my stead. My own father tried his hardest to get me killed. I tried too,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I felt--I feel--so guilty. Boromir would still be alive if it weren’t for me. I. . .murdered him.”

Éowyn reached over and grabbed Faramir’s hand. “Stop. Just stop. I may not be squishy and understanding like Merry, or considerate like you, but I know that what happened wasn’t your fault, whatever this whole goddamn city might say. You didn’t murder a soul. Your brother’s choice was his own. For heaven’s sake, you tried to get him not to go!”

“But I still am the reason that he went! It’s my fault,” Faramir interjected.

Éowyn squeezed his hand hard. “No. Boromir went because he loved you. You didn’t force him, or. . .or even ask him to! He just did, because sometimes, that’s how love works. If I’d died in the battle, would it have been my brother’s fault, because I followed him? Of course not! Sometimes we lose people we care about, but that’s not a reason to throw our own lives away. Your brother died because he wanted to give you the chance to live. So the least you can do is honor him by doing just that. So stop saying it’s your fault he’s dead, because that’s stupid and untrue. And anyone who says otherwise is a jackass and you can refer them to me to get punched. Especially your father. He should’ve been proud to have a son as kind and smart and brave as you.”

Faramir looked slightly shocked. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. Éowyn dropped his hand and backed away. “Oh gods, did I do it again? I did, didn’t I. I said something horrible. Why I am so fucking  _ bad _ at everything involving other people?” 

“Okay,” Faramir said from behind her. “It’s my turn to say ‘shut up.’ I’m crying because you’re right, not because I’m hurt.”

Éowyn stopped and turned around. “I’m. . .right?”

Faramir nodded. “Yes. You’re right. It was pure rot when you said you were bad at things involving feelings. Because what you just said? That was fucking beautiful.”

Éowyn focused on untangling a knot in her hair. “Merry could’ve said it better.”

Faramir put a hand on her shoulder. “I think you said it perfectly. Can I give you a hug? Or will it hurt your arm?”

Éowyn laughed. “I don’t care if it hurts my arm. As Merry would say, we’re both in dire need of a snuggle. Feelings are draining.”

“They are indeed,” Faramir replied. 

~ ~ ~

In the middle of the night, long after they’d both fallen asleep, Éowyn was shaken awake by Faramir. 

“Hey, I forgot to ask. Do you really think I’m kind and smart and brave, or were you just saying that to make me feel better?”

Éowyn jerked her blanket over her head. “Go back to sleep, you turtle bastard.”

Faramir giggled. “Should I take that as a yes?”

“If I had two fully functional hands, Faramir, I would smack you with a pillow.”

“Oh, that’s definitely a yes,” Faramir said. 

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word cannot express just how much I enjoy writing each and every scene with Merry. He's such a delight for me. Just felt like sharing. :)

“Did you have a good night?” Merry asked with unconvincing nonchalance when Éowyn came back the next morning.

“Yep. Pillows are really a step up from dirt, I’ve got to say.”

Merry flopped down on the bed beside her. “Tell me more.”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “Um, I slept? I went on a fucking terrifying ride to the Upper Ring? What’s there to tell?”

Merry sighed. “Did you two kiss? Or, like, I don’t know, canoodle?”

“Gods, Merry! Have you ever heard of boundaries?! No, we did  _ not _ do any of that!”

Merry shrugged. “Okay, but did you  _ want _ to?”

“What did you want to do?” Faramir asked, sticking his head cheerily in the door.

Merry laughed. “Oh, Éowyn and I were just talking about--mblergh!”

Éowyn slapped her good hand over Merry’s mouth. “It’s not a big deal! We don’t need to talk about it!”

Faramir shrugged. “Sure. Do either of you want to walk in the garden with me? The daffodils are blooming.”

Merry succeeded in prying Éowyn’s hand off his face. “Yes! I definitely think that Éowyn should go with you! Also me. I’m a real fan of daffodils. I’m the daffodil-iest hobbit out there.”

“That was a really strange way to say it, but okay,” Faramir said. 

Merry grabbed Éowyn’s hand as they followed Faramir down the hall, practically skipping across the floor.

“Merry, are you scheming?” Éowyn asked suspiciously.

Merry beamed up at her. “Nope! I just really like daffodils.”

~ ~ ~

It took quite a while for the three of them to walk to the Upper Ring, as Éowyn flatly refused to take Faramir’s rattling contraption. 

“You’ll hurt your arm,” Faramir fussed.

“Bullshit. I don’t walk on my hands, Faramir,” Éowyn growled, and kept walking. 

“I can walk on my hands, wanna see?” Merry piped. 

“Gods, don’t, we’re climbing a hill,” Faramir pleaded.

As soon as they reached the garden, Merry sprinted off and disappeared into the flowers. Faramir and Éowyn stared after him. 

“How is he so cheerful?” Éowyn sighed.

Faramir touched her arm. “You’re worrying about your brother, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I mean. . .he could be dead.  _ We _ could be about to die. We don’t know  _ anything _ , and that’s what. . .scares me.”

Faramir slipped his arm through hers. “That’s true. But--and maybe it’s just me--I think I’d rather spend my last moments happy.”

Éowyn bit her lip. “Whether you’re happy or not, the darkness is still out there.”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, plucking a sprig of thyme and offering it to Éowyn. “But the flowers still bloom.” 

Éowyn rubbed the sweet-smelling leaves between her fingers and swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes. They do.”

Faramir smiled at her. “Hey, can I tell you something?”

Éowyn raised her eyebrows. “Go ahead.”

“I’m really glad we’re friends.”

Éowyn smiled at Faramir and squeezed his hand. “Me too.”

Faramir looked away, his fingers tapping nervously against his leg. “I was. . .I was wondering if maybe you might. . .you might want to. . .gods, I’m doing this all wrong!”

Éowyn suddenly became very aware of Faramir’s hand in hers. “Uh, do you want to start over?”

Faramir took a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “Okay, okay. I. . .you. . .I care about you? A lot? And. . .and. . .I think. . .”

“You think. . .?” Éowyn prompted.

Before Faramir could continue (and Éowyn doubted he was going too), there was a rustling in the bushes and Merry, panting and flushed, exploded out of the leaves.

“It’s done!” he practically screamed. “They’re back! The war’s over! 

~ ~ ~

It suddenly felt as if the world was spinning much faster than it had been a moment before. Questions burst from Éowyn like water fountaining from behind a broken dam. 

“Where?! How do you know?! Did you see them?! Can  _ I _ see them?!” she asked, all in one breath.

Merry bounced up and down on his toes. “I saw the dust cloud they kicked up, and there were HUGE eagles flying! It can’t be anything else, right?”

Faramir dropped Éowyn’s hand and knelt on the grass beside “Okay, Merry, where did the eagles land?”

“East of here, I think,” Merry squeaked. 

Faramir stood up. “Ithilien, then. All right. I’m going to ride out of the city and try to meet them there; Merry, you run and tell as many people as you can. Éowyn, you can’t move that fast right now, so you can come with me. Let’s go.”

And go they did. Merry sprinted off as if he had wings on his feet, and Faramir shunted Éowyn into the elevator. She was too preoccupied to even be frightened this time.

“Can’t you go any faster?!” she urged Faramir, as they sank back down into the city’s lower rings.

“Éowyn, I assure you that if I could make this fucking box move any quicker, I would,” he yelled back, his hair tossed wildly by the wind.

When they got to the stables (after what felt like an eternity to Éowyn), they found that Merry had been there before them. A horse was already saddled, held by an agitated young groom who practically threw the reins at Faramir and gave Éowyn such a boost that she thought she might fly right over the horse’s considerable rump. 

She wrapped her good arm as tightly as she could around Faramir’s waist as they galloped through the cobblestone streets and through the ruins of the main gate. The wind tore stinging tears from Éowyn’s eyes and slapped her cheeks. The plain undulated around her with the horse’s gait. She was close enough to Faramir to feel the wild beating of his heart. 

Éowyn opened her mouth and screeched exultantly, not a war cry this time, but a yell of pure joy. 

~ ~ ~

Éowyn’s arm was aching from the jolting by the time they reached the margins of the camp, but she slithered off the horse as fast as she could and would’ve run off if Faramir hadn’t grabbed her shoulder.

“Éowyn, we’ll find him, but we’re going to do it systematically.”

Éowyn shook herself free and began hurrying in a random direction. “I just want to see my brother. I don’t give a shit about doing it  _ systematically _ .”

Faramir jogged after her. “Fine, but I’m going to go look for Mithrandir and Aragorn.”

“Go ahead,” Éowyn shouted over her shoulder, already plunging into the camp. 

~ ~ ~

All around her, soldiers were rubbing down their horses, pitching tents, laughing or crying together in little knots.

“Have you seen Éomer?” Éowyn asked a grizzled captain. He shook his head, busy with bandaging the arm of a wounded soldier who couldn’t be more than thirteen. 

“Have you seen my brother?” Éowyn said, grabbing the sleeve of a spear-wielding horseman.

He stared at her incredulously. “Lady Éowyn?”

Éowyn sighed. “Yes, yes, it’s me, but have you seen my brother?”

He shook his head dumbfoundedly and continued on his way. 

_ Maybe Faramir was right _ , Éowyn thought to herself as she asked more and more soldiers and got only stares and shaking heads.  _ Maybe this wasn’t the best way to do this.  _

_ Or maybe _ , added a darker voice in the back of her mind,  _ Éomer’s dead, and you’ll never find him. _

Éowyn found that she was crying, tears trickling down her cheeks and choking her. Every step sent sharp stabs of pain through her back. The faces of the soldiers blurred together into one non-Éomer entity. Where was he? He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be, not after everything. She couldn’t be alone. Hadn’t losing Théodred been enough? Hadn’t it been enough to nearly lose herself?

Éowyn sank to the ground, letting the tide of soldiers flow around her. No. No, no, no, no, not this, anything but this. . .anything. . .

The ground swam in and out of focus. Éowyn wondered if she was dying. It felt like she couldn’t breathe. Her chest ached. Everything seemed so fuzzy. Was it possible to die of a broken heart?

Running footsteps cut through her daze. “Move!” someone was calling. “Pardon me, excuse me, get the FUCK out of my way, that’s my sister!”

There was a thud of someone sitting down beside her, and she felt arms pulling at her, wrapping her in the smell of leather, and sweat, and dust. 

“Éowyn,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “Éowyn, it’s okay. Everything’s all right now. I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”

“Éomer. . .,” Éowyn sobbed, burying her head in his shoulder as every tear she’d held back since leaving Edoras dripped down her cheeks in a flood of relief and pain and joy all mixed together. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay. . .shh. . .” Éomer murmured again and again as he rocked her like he had when she was small and had woken crying from a nightmare. 

_ It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m here. It’s okay. Shhh.  _

_ It’s okay. _

_ It’s okay.  _

_ I’m here. _

_ It’s okay. _

_ Shhh. . . . _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter was rather short, it just seemed like I'd reached a logical cut-off point and I didn't want to undermine the Feelings going on by stretching it out. :) More will be posted soon!!


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bad boy is rather in-depth, which is why it's been a longish time since I've updated. But here is my humble offering to you all. :)  
> PS. I had so much fun writing this, so I hope all you lovely humans (and otherworldly entities) have as much fun reading it.

She wasn’t sure if she’d cried herself into sleep, but when she came back to herself, she was lying on grass with the sun shining on her face and laughter in her ears. She sat up, blinking, and was immediately greeted by Merry throwing himself energetically onto her legs.

“Éowyn! You’re all right!” He sat up. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, because my best friend--well, my other best friend, next to you--is here, and I really want to introduce you so that I can have two best friends who are also friends with each other and then we can be a triple threat! You know what they say, ‘three’s a squad!’”

“I don’t think they say that. . .” Éowyn pointed out, but Merry was already rushing off.

“Pip! Pippin! PEREGRIN THADDEUS TOOK!! Get over here, buddy!”

Another hobbit poked his head out from behind a bush. There were leaves and twigs stuck in his hair, and he was holding a half-eaten fruit tart. 

“Oi, what’s cooking?” he said, still chewing energetically. Merry grabbed his arm and pulled him towards Éowyn, grinning widely.

“Okay, Pippin, this is Éowyn, she’s my friend and she’s amazing. She kills stuff. Éowyn, this is Pippin, my friend from home. He’s kind of a goofball.”

Pippin lifted his fruit tart and waved it in a friendly way. “Nice to meet you! Want a tart? I’ve got another.”

“Er. . .okay,” Éowyn said. The tart did look quite good.

After digging around in one of his many pockets, Pippin pulled out a tart, rather haphazardly wrapped in a leaf, and passed it to Éowyn. It was more than slightly smushed, but Pippin looked so expectant that Éowyn took a bite. 

“Aren’t they good?” Pippin asked. “Gandalf made them.”

“Gandalf?” Éowyn said in surprise. “He’s here too?”

Pippin grinned. “Course he is! Where else  _ would  _ he be?”

Merry shoved him. “Be nice, Pip. She’s been busy. She hasn’t been keeping up.”

Pippin stuck out his tongue. “I’m being perfectly nice! Aren’t I, Éowyn?”

“It’s all good,” Éowyn laughed. Something about their joyful banter seemed familiar to her, like being wrapped up in a cozy blanket. She took another bite of the pastry, chewing thoughtfully as she watched Merry and Pippin devolving into a loving poking war. Who did they remind her of? 

“Wynnie!” someone called. Éowyn turned her head and saw Éomer jogging towards her, smiling widely. He sat down beside her and rubbed her shoulder. “Feeling better?”

Éowyn nodded. “Yeah. Sorry for slobbering all over you before.”

Éomer scooted closer until he could rest his head on her shoulder. “My coat was pretty much destroyed anyways. All that matters is that you’re okay.” Éomer paused. “Wyn, I have to ask. . .were you trying to. . .to destroy yourself? Was that why you left?”

Éowyn bit her lip. “I just felt so hopeless.”

Éomer looked up at her, his eyes full of fear. “Do you still feel that way?”

“I think maybe a little part of me  _ always  _ will. But I think I know how to fight it now. Because I’m not alone anymore.”

Éomer squeezed her hand. “You never were.”

Éowyn licked the last crumbs of the tart from her fingers. “Also, I feel like I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have made a promise I had no intention of keeping.”

Éomer shrugged. “You could’ve told me, you know.”

“Well, you  _ did _ try to convince me to go to the hills, so I wasn’t sure. But yes, I could’ve.”

“How did you even get into the cavalry with nobody recognizing you?”

Éowyn laughed. “Oh, that’s a funny story. You see, I was going to be a footsoldier, and then a captain mistook me for someone else and sent me to cavalry, so I just stayed there. And then Merry found me in the middle of the night, and I nearly skewered him with my sword, and then it just kind of escalated until we killed the Wraith.”

Éomer shook his head. “You’re a brave idiot and I love you.”

“I love you too, big brother.”

For a while, they just sat, simply enjoying being together after so long apart. The sun was warm and the scent of grass was all around them. Bees buzzed lazily, drifting around the patches of white and purple clover. Merry and Pippin tumbled over and over each other, yelling and laughing about nothing. Éowyn tapped her brother’s leg.

“You know, I keep thinking that they remind me of somebody,” she said thoughtfully.

“What?” Éomer said, jerking out of some private reverie.

“Merry and Pippin. They make me think of somebody, but I can’t remember who.” 

Éomer tilted his head thoughtfully, watching the two hobbits. After a few moments, his face lit up and he turned towards her.

“Théo. When we were little, and we used to play together and just be silly for hours and hours. That’s who they’re like.”

Éowyn swallowed, feeling the familiar twinge in her heart. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s who I was thinking about.” 

Éomer nodded and they settled back into comfortable silence. Éowyn lifted her face towards the sun, letting the warmth pour down over her shoulders, tingling on her skin. A feeling of acute wholeness stole over her; like she filled every cranny and crevice of her own self, like maybe some of the cracks were finally knitting together, the jagged edges smoothing.

Éowyn closed her eyes and let all the feelings--the joy, the sorrow, the unity, the emptiness--swirl through her. She was an inside-out thing, a cracked vase sealed with gold, she was vast and tiny, perfect and broken, an entire woman filled to the brim with beautiful contradictions. Princess and soldier. Death-dealer and protector. Immeasurably wild and inconceivably soft. 

And, for the first time, that was okay. 

~ ~ ~

Three weeks later, Éowyn stood outside the largest pavilion in the camp, arguing passionately with a groom. 

“Oh, come on! I’m not a damned assassin! I just want to  _ talk  _ to him, for like,  _ five _ minutes, okay?”

The groom glared at her. “I’m sorry, milady, but he is busy. He is preparing to leave for the city. You must know that today is the day of the coronation.”

Éowyn silently counted to ten and resisted the urge to punch the expressionless face in front of her. 

“Just five minutes, I promise. I’m his. . .” Éowyn considered. Did yelling at someone during a party in their honor really count as friendship? For her purposes, it would have to. “I’m his friend,” she finished. 

The groom eyed her. “You? Really? How would you know King Elessar?”

Éowyn looked down at herself. Yes, she had cleaned herself up as best as she could, but she still looked slightly bedraggled. It wasn’t as if they had dresses and maids in an army camp. She rubbed her boots together, trying to scrape off a smear of mud.

“Er. . .we met in Rohan.”

The groom rolled his eyes and gestured to the guard standing behind him. “Shoo her away, Wes.”

Éowyn didn’t even start counting. She threw Merry’s advice about keeping her cool and being polite directly out the window and stormed straight up to the groom, poking a finger into his chest.

“Shoo?! I’d like to see you  _ try _ , you milky little bastard!”

“Is something wrong?” said a familiar voice, sounding completely calm. Éowyn choked on the stream of curses she’d been preparing to let loose. 

Aragorn mildly stepped through the tent-flap, serenely buttoning up the top of his shirt. His tattered clothes were gone, the dirt wiped from his face. His hair was combed, and a circlet of silver was banded across his forehead. A richly embroidered tunic fell around him in pale folds of blue, white, and gold. He looked nothing like the travel-stained man Éowyn had met at the party. Only his eyes were the same, dark and serious, but with occasional twinkles of humor, as if he was laughing at some private and ongoing joke. 

Éowyn tried to ignore her burning cheeks and collect her dignity. “Um, hi. Do you still go by Aragorn? Your guards were calling you Ellie-something. Uh. . .it’s me, by the way. Éowyn. I yelled at you in Rohan?” She gave him a slightly desperate smile. The groom was staring at her disgustedly. 

Aragorn smiled and stepped forward, taking her arm. “How could I forget? Meeting you was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak time for me. Please, come in.”

Éowyn couldn’t resist sticking her tongue out at the groom as Aragorn led her into the pavilion. As soon as they were inside, Aragorn sat down on the edge of a table and gestured for her to do the same. All the stiffness had gone out of his posture, and he seemed a little bit more like how he’d been in Meduseld. 

“Er. . .you’re looking spiffy,” Éowyn said, trying to fill the silence.

Aragorn laughed. “I feel like I can barely move. The minute this is all over, I’m going right back to my old clothes. I’ve lived in the wilds for far too long to appreciate embroidered velvet.”

Éowyn snorted. “Oh, I know exactly what you mean. I don’t think I’m ever going to put on another dress. Well, not unless I get to pick it.”

The silence returned, like a palpable presence in the room. What did you say to someone who you barely knew when that someone was about to become king? 

“Can I still call you Aragorn?” she said, just to say something.

Aragorn shrugged. “Formally, I’m Elessar now, but my friends from the Shire still call me ‘Strider,’ your brother calls me ‘Wingfoot,’ and my wife-to-be calls me ‘Essie.’ So I don’t really care. Call me anything.”

“Okay, Anything,” Éowyn replied.

Aragorn gave her a look. “Have you been spending time with a certain Merry Brandybuck lately?”

Éowyn giggled. “I couldn’t resist. He’s rubbing off on me. Also, uh, ‘Essie?’”

Aragorn rubbed his forehead and sighed. “Gah. I was ‘Estel’ when I was child and the nickname stuck.”

Éowyn grinned. “Aw, so cute.” 

Aragorn groaned. “It’s less cute when you’re the one getting called it.”

Her smile turned sly. “So who’s this lucky girl who gets to give you embarrassing pet names?”

Aragorn turned slightly red. “Her name is Arwen. I’ll introduce you, if you want. I think you’ll get along.”

“I’d really love to meet her. Anyone who can make the most unflappable person I’ve ever met go all gooey-eyed must be pretty damn brilliant.”

Aragorn’s blush deepened. “She  _ is _ .”

Éowyn put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you. Truly. And. . .um, in light of that, I’d really like to apologize for what I said when we first met. I was deeply unhappy and if. . .if I could swallow up those words and erase them from your mind, I would. You didn’t deserve my hatred or my rage. But I hope. . .I hope we can be friends someday. And even if we can’t, I just wanted you to know that I think you deserve every joyful thing that life has to offer.”

Aragorn turned towards her, blinking in surprise. “Aren’t we already friends? Did I miss something?”

It was Éowyn’s turn to be taken aback. “You. . .aren’t mad?”

“Of course not. Sometimes when we’re hurting, we say things we don’t mean, or we say them in ways we shouldn’t. I was never angry at you for lashing out at me. I’ve done similar things. Friends are the people who stick with you when you’re at your worst. And I am proud to be your friend.”

Éowyn leaned over and gave Aragorn a one-armed hug. “Is it awkward if I tell you I love you?”

Aragorn shook his head. “Not at all. I’m honored. And I love you too.” He paused. “You seem so much happier than you did before.”

Éowyn shrugged. “You know what, I think I am.”

The groom from before stuck his head through the tent flap. “Milord, you should be getting ready.”

Aragorn smiled ruefully. “Yes, Danik, I know. But sometimes friends take priority.” He turned to Éowyn. “We’ll talk another time, hopefully when I’m not being smothered by what feels like a carpet.”

Éowyn laughed and started out the opening. “Until then, buddy.”

Aragorn snorted. “Merry really  _ is _ rubbing off on you.”

Éowyn walked away smiling, laughter ringing in her ears. 

~ ~ ~

“For the last time, Éomer, I can ride my own horse!” Éowyn said, glaring up at her brother. “We won’t be galloping or anything! I won’t need both hands!”

Éomer groaned. “Gods, Éowyn, you’ll break your other arm!”

“How?! I’m not going to fall off at a  _ walk _ !”

“Stuff just happens to you, Wyn!”

“Look,” Éowyn said placatingly, “Nothing will happen. Merry will be with me.”

Éomer raised an eyebrow. “That. . .doesn’t really make me feel better.”

Merry materialized beside Éowyn and crossed his arms. “Oh, excuse me?! I am _ very  _ trustworthy!”

Éomer threw up his hands. “You two are the most STUBBORN duo in existence,” he muttered. “But I can’t take on both of you, so do it your way.”

Merry grinned up at Éowyn. “Oh, yeah. He knows he can’t beat us. We’re unstoppable!”

Éowyn boosted Merry onto her mare and scrambled on after. “Yep, that’s us. Now let’s go cheer our man on.”

The sun was sinking towards the western horizon as the procession started off towards Minas Tirith, Aragorn riding in the front. Éowyn guessed that Faramir was with him. She kind of wished he was with her instead.

“You know, the first thing Strider better do as king is make a good postal system like we have in the Shire.”

Éowyn shook herself out of her daydream. “Why?”

Merry paused. “I’m going home,” he murmured into her shoulder. “I decided with Pip the other day. We’ve got to go back to the Shire.”

Éowyn swallowed hard. “Oh. Well, yeah. You’re family, and everything. . .they’re all there.”

Merry leaned against her back. “Not all my family.”

“You’ll come and visit, right?” Éowyn asked, not quite trusting her voice.

“Well,  _ yeah _ ! And you’ll have to come and see me in the Shire sometime. But it’s a long journey, and I’ve got short legs.”

“I’m going to miss you,” Éowyn said.

Merry squeezed her arm. “Me too. But we’ll write. You’re not losing me, okay?”

Éowyn smiled, even though her eyes were stinging. “Yeah. Buddies forever, right?”

She could practically hear Merry grinning. “Buddies for _ ever _ . When we get to Minas Tirith we’ll shake on it.”

Éowyn giggled, which made Merry snort, until they were both guffawing and the people around them cast confused glances at the two odd riders laughing their heads off in the light of the setting sun.

~ ~ ~

The crowd of onlookers pushed Éowyn this way and that as she craned her neck to watch Aragorn make his stately way towards the city gates (restored by Gandalf and no longer in ruins). The rosy light glimmered on the golden threads of his robes and painted the city above him in a thousand shades of orange, pink, violet, and gold. The jewels set in the crown Gandalf held shone like stars. 

Aragorn knelt, his hands folded in a ritual gesture Éowyn didn’t know. Gandalf began to intone something. The crowd murmured and shifted in excitement. 

“Hi,” someone whispered, close to Éowyn’s ear. 

She started and looked around, meeting Faramir’s eyes. He gave her a tiny wave. 

“Hey,” Éowyn murmured. “I’m glad to see you.”

Faramir nodded, his eyes fixed on Aragorn, still kneeling, his head momentarily bent with the weight of the crown. As he rose, a beam of sunlight caught on his shining figure, illuminating him in iridescent hues. The crowd aahed collectively. 

Gandalf raised his arms. “All hail the true king!” he said, his voice ringing like a war trumpet.

“ _ The true king! _ ” the crowd echoed in one jubilant voice, bowing as a single entity. 

Éowyn turned her eyes upwards to watch Aragorn, hoping to catch his gaze. But Aragorn was looking away, his eyes fixed on some face in the crowd. Éowyn followed the direction of his eyes, and smiled to herself.

Aragorn’s face was turned towards a dark-haired woman slowly making her way through the knots of people. Even from her considerable distance, Éowyn could see that her eyes shone even brighter than the jewels adorning Aragorn’s headpiece. As she neared the clear space where he stood, she began to run, slipping through the narrow spaces between bodies.

At this point, the whole crowd was gawking at her as she broke free of the onlookers and practically launched herself at Aragorn, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Aragorn half lifted her off the ground with a joyful cry of  _ Arwen!  _ The crowd sighed and dabbed at their eyes. 

Hand in hand, Arwen and Aragorn entered the city, and, undulating, the crowd followed. Éowyn let them begin to push her towards the gates, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

“Can I steal you away for a minute?” Faramir asked.

“Oh, sure,” Éowyn said, suddenly very aware that her heart was beating in her ears. 

They strolled towards the gates in silence, but Faramir turned before they entered, gesturing Éowyn up a narrow flight of stone steps carved out of the wall. Éowyn trailed her fingers on the blocks beside her, still warm from the now-departed sun. 

After a few minutes (Éowyn was proud to only be slightly out of breath), they reached the ramparts of the city. 

“You okay up here?” Faramir asked, looking back at her.

Éowyn shrugged. “As long as you’re not taking me on any more rides in that rattling deathtrap, yes, I’m fine.”

Faramir grinned. “I’m glad. This is one of my favorite places in the city. I come up here sometimes just to clear my head.” He leaned on the wall, looking out at the city spread rising below them. “It’s kind of like flying, isn’t it?”

Éowyn nodded, moving to stand beside him. “Yeah. This must be how birds feel.”

She gave Faramir a sideways glance. He looked. . .nervous? 

He cleared his throat. “So, um, now that Aragorn’s king, I’m not Steward anymore. Obviously.”

“Uh, does that upset you?”

Faramir laughed. “Oh, gods, no! Of course not. I never  _ really  _ wanted to be Steward. And anyways, it’s not like I’m losing my job. Aragorn wants me to look after Ithilien. Officially, I’ll be Prince of Ithilien.”

Éowyn grinned. “Faramir, that’s great! We should go down to the city and celebrate!”

Faramir bit his lip and took a deep breath. “Wait. I. . .I was wondering. . .if. . .well, if you might want to come with me to Ithilien. To stay. I don’t want to take you away from your life, or your. . .your home and everything. . .but. . .well, restoring Ithilien will be a big job. Too big for just me. And. . .well, you’re the person I’d most want to do this with. Because I love you, Éowyn. I really do.”

Éowyn tugged on his sleeve. “Bend down.”

“Uh, what?” Faramir said, staring at her.

Éowyn sighed impatiently. “Please bend down so I can reach your face.”

“Can I ask why?”

Éowyn rolled her eyes, unable to hold back a smile. “So I can kiss you, you wonderful idiot. Because I’m pretty sure I love you too.”

“Only pretty sure?” Faramir asked a few minutes later, looking rather flushed. 

Éowyn tapped her chin in mock thought. “Oh, I’d say very sure, now. Probably even positive. You’re a very good kisser.”

Faramir laughed and wrapped his arms around her. “I think this is the part where we ought to live happily ever after, don’t you?”

Éowyn tilted her head so she could look up into his face. “I doubt anyone can truly live happily ever after, but I’m going to give it a damn good try.”

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

Éowyn slipped through the familiar doorway, the smell of burned herbs wrapping around her as she entered the room. The small altar was just as it had always been, if a little dustier. Éowyn lowered her pack to the ground and sat beside it, straightening the faded green banner spread across the low table before her. She smoothed the now-yellowed sketch of Théodred that sat at the center of the altar, and scraped a bit of melted wax off the edge of the table with her nail.

The sound of voices drifted through the open door--Éomer and Lothíriel besottedly squabbling about the best way to saddle a horse. Éowyn smiled. She liked Lothíriel, and was glad that she wouldn’t be leaving Éomer alone. The circlet of kingship sat well on his head, but he was still Éomer, and he needed someone to ground him from his flights of fancy. Éowyn listened to the rise and fall of their voices, occasionally interrupted by Faramir’s soft laughter. 

Éowyn rummaged through her bag and pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of parchment, a quill, and a tiny green bottle of ink--a gift from Faramir. Éowyn ran her finger over the tree of Gondor etched onto the glass and twisted off the stopper. She dipped her quill in and took a deep breath before lowering it to the paper.

_ Dear Théo, _

_ I don’t know why I’m writing this, because I doubt anyone will read it, but I just felt like I should tell you what’s happening now. It’s been three months since Aragorn was crowned, and two since I put the circlet on Éomer’s head. Yeah, he wanted me to do it. It was kind of nice, but a little strange and sad. We’re not children anymore. Isn’t that odd?  _

_ But anyways, I suppose I have to say goodbye. I’m going with Faramir to Ithilien, where the flowers are starting to push through the ashes of Mordor. We’re going to restore it and make it bloom again. I hope it will be beautiful. I think it will be, with Faramir there. Prince of Ithilien is his official title, but everyone calls him the Flower Prince. I think he rather likes it, and, to be honest, I do too. It suits him. I wonder if they’ll start calling me the Flower Princess, to match. Right now, a lot of people have started calling me Wraithslayer, which is fine, I suppose, but I don’t think I want to be Wraithslayer forever. I’m more than the things I’ve killed. I mean, of course I’m still a soldier, I always will be, but now I fight to protect and give life, rather than just to take it away. I’m still learning, and maybe it’ll take the whole rest of my life, but I’m okay with that. Someday I’ll make the flowers bloom, but until then, I’ll fight so that others can. _

_ You know, though, I may not have anyone to ride out and chase away soon. Because--and this was Faramir’s idea--we’ve taken in some of the soldiers from Mordor. You know, under all that armor, and once you learn to ignore tusks and claws and more than two eyes, they’re not so different from us. We’ve got a whole crew now, waiting in Ithilien. I went to visit a few weeks ago, and they were all planting trees and throwing dirt at each other and laughing like kids. Some of them are actually children. I never thought I’d be a mother this early! Especially a mother of twenty--and more are still coming! So I guess I’m fighting to protect them too. You’d like them, I think. They’re sweeter than I expected. One little girl--I never thought fangs could be cute before I met her-- would hold my hand forever if she could. To think I could’ve killed her. I’m not sad that the war’s over. No, not at all.  _

_ There’s a strength in making things grow. I know that now. And maybe I’m not meant for it, but I’ll do the best I can. We all will. And the best we can do is hold on to each other.  _

_ Love, _

_ Éowyn _

Éowyn lifted her quill from the paper and blew on the ink to dry it before folding the letter over and resting it beneath one of the candles. She turned, hearing a sound behind her, and smiled up at Faramir.

“Did you know you wrinkle up your forehead when you’re focusing?” he asked, leaning against the doorframe. “I couldn’t bring myself to disturb you--you looked so adorable.”

Éowyn rolled her eyes and grinned. “You’re the sappiest man in the world.”

Faramir laughed and shrugged, stretching his hand out to her. “I’m okay with that. Are you ready to go?” 

Éowyn stuffed the ink bottle back into her bag and rose, slinging it over her shoulder. She looked back for a moment, watching the sunbeams play on Théodred's forever-young face. His eyes seemed to shine out from the parchment. She smiled at him, one last time. 

Then she took Faramir’s hand and stepped out into the light.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this story comes to a close, I just want to give a HUGE thank you to each and every one of you who left kudos or comments. They really keep me going and give me so much encouragement. You lovely humans make writing such a pleasure.  
> One micro-ramble before we finish--writing this story has really made me adore Éowyn. I always thought she was cool and all, but now I just understand her so much better and really appreciate her as a character. I hope that I can give someone else the same experience too. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Fun extra: I made a playlist of songs that make me think of this story, so if you want to take a listen, I've attached the URL below!!  
> spotify:playlist:3crJdf2upGfYtmT1lU8Dsh


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